


Nameless

by AvaKelly



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Infinity Gems, M/M, Memory Loss, Past meetings, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Recovery, Rescue Mission, Saving the World, Slow Burn, Tattoos, Tearjerker, Time Loop, Time Travel, jules verne references, mentions of torture, obliviously falling in love, starcrossed assassins (not really)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2016-12-01
Packaged: 2018-05-16 11:44:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 101,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5827387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaKelly/pseuds/AvaKelly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A gun is pointed at him before he can even move from his position, the Soldier's metal arm steady in its aim. Clint sighs.</p><p>"Nemo," Clint says. "It's tattooed on your wrist, right here," he lifts his right hand and taps his left index finger where his palm ends. </p><p>The Soldier's eyes widen. "How do you know this?"</p><p>"I put it there."</p><p>  <a href="http://intermittently-ava.tumblr.com/post/153915192117/nameless-completemarvel">[complete]</a> <a href="http://spectralarchers.tumblr.com/post/154001889092">[1997 | warning possible spoilers]</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Book I Parallels

**Author's Note:**

> Hello.  
> So, here we are. I've started posting this, it will be a chapter at a time, might take a while to write it all. By estimates, it might get long, so I don't know what to say. Let's just hope the muses are kind and work allows me to write more than 1k words at a time.  
> All the thanks to the Cat, the Molly, and the Hraf. They all appeared at the horizon, riding their wild horses through the desert, taking care not to butt into cacti... you know :D  
> I'll update the tags as we go along.  
> As usual, if you see errors and such, or if you have tag ideas, let me know.  
> Thus we embark on a fic journey once again. Thank you for reading!

## Book I Parallels

~

2014

Clint is late to the party, as always. He stops behind the last line of trees on the banks of the Potomac, watching the helicarriers crash around the Triskelion when he notices movement to the side. He carefully shifts up the tree, draws an arrow from his quiver. He doesn't have long to wait before the water surface breaks and the ghost Natasha's briefed him about walks out. He carries something, it's heavy, and Clint recognizes Steve being dropped at the edge of the water.

The Winter Soldier moves away then, and Clint watches him disappear between the trees before jumping down. He checks on the Captain, finds a pulse, before fishing his phone out. He tries a few numbers, and finally gets a hold of Hill. When he's got confirmation Natasha's alive and kicking, and that help is on its way for Steve, Clint moves through the trees himself.

It's about an hour later when he catches up with the Soldier, on the bad side of the abandoned warehouse cluster right at the outskirts of an old shipping yard. Clint peeks over the edge of the roof at the figure below, holding his breath as steady as possible.

The Soldier is leaning heavily onto a corner, his back to Clint, pushing his right shoulder into the exposed brick. It looks dislocated.

"Why are you following me?" Clint hears in a raspy voice from below, and it surprises him so much, that he almost flails himself off the roof.

He takes his time to consider his answer. "Curiosity," he finally says. In times like this, raw truth is the best option.

The Soldier grunts noncommittally before slamming his shoulder into the wall. It doesn't work, given the way his arm still hangs awkwardly by his side."Not an animal to gape at," he grits.

"Not gaping," Clint says, "admiring."

At this, the Soldier turns to look up at Clint. His eyes are just as sharp as Clint remembers them. It's been almost twenty years and he hasn't aged a single day. Clint shivers.

"Hold on," he adds, "I'm coming down."

A gun is pointed at him before he can even move from his position, the Soldier's metal arm steady in its aim. Clint sighs. So he has to do this the hard way.

"Nemo," Clint says. "It's tattooed on your wrist, right here," he lifts his right hand and taps his left index finger where his palm ends.

The Soldier's eyes widen. "How do you know this?"

"I put it there."

~

1997

All he can hear are his own rugged gasps, all he can smell is wet dirt and the lingering burn of tires from where the truck had sped off the asphalt. There's pain, everywhere, a sharp one in his leg where Trickshot's arrow had pierced his flesh, a throbbing one in his dislocated right shoulder, Barney's doing, and a bright web in his left hand, under the rock they've both placed on it before rushing off. His own brother and his mentor had left him cold and wounded, to die in a ditch on the side of the road.

Tears fill his eyes, because this can't be real, it can't happen. He's just turned sixteen and he's dying. Clint is dying.

Funny thing is, as daylight fades away and the pain swoops in more and more intense with each breath, that he's starting to wish for it. The hurt is deeper than the wounds of his body, the sort that Clint already knows won't ever go away. By the time the clouds in the sky clear and stars show up surrounding the cold light of the moon, Clint is welcoming it. He's wishing for death.

A car drives by, stops close, but Clint is right at the bottom of the ditch, hidden in the bushes, air too thin in his lungs. He thinks for a moment that someone might have climbed out of the car, but it soon speeds away, and no other noises follows. Again, all he can hear are his own gasping breaths, all he can feel is pain, and Clint shivers. It might have been hours, it might have been minutes, but the next thing he sees is a man standing over him, watching.

He's tall, shoulders wide and boots too clean to have been a drifter on foot along the deserted highway. His long hair is falling messily around his face, framing his eyes, bright blue and pained, but cold. He draws a gun from the holster strapped to his leg, and finally... finally it's come for him. Clint closes his eyes.

"Thank you," he breathes.

~

2014

"You're lying."

Clint shakes his head. "I can prove it," he says, motioning to his pocket. "Gonna get a pen, 'k?"

It takes a few seconds, but the Soldier nods. His aim is still steady onto Clint as he fishes out a pen and small notepad from his pocket. His writing has softened since he was a kid, but it mostly remained the same blocky scratch. He writes down 'Nemo' and he could do that with his eyes closed holding the pen in his teeth.

"Here," he says, throwing the pad down with a twitch of his wrist.

It lands right in front of the Soldier, page up, and Clint waits. He can see the disbelief in the Soldier's eyes as he carefully studies the scribble. The hand holding the gun trembles slightly before the Soldier looks back up, jaw set.

"Now you write it," Clint adds, throws down the pen as well. "Oh, wait, your shoulder's dislocated, what was I thinking," Clint rolls his eyes, and perhaps sarcasm isn't the best choice right now.

But the Soldier snorts. Clint smiles to himself. Yeah, just like he remembers.

"Here's what I'm gonna do," Clint adds. "I'll come down there, help you with that shoulder, and if you still don't believe me, then you'll be better fit to fight, higher chances of taking me out."

The Soldier considers this, eyes skittering about, but never really off of Clint. It doesn't take long for him to jerk his chin in agreement, and Clint fixes a grappling arrow on the edge of the roof before sliding to the ground.

He's standing there, nozzle pointed at his head, the man in front of him tall, shoulders wide, hair falling messily around his face. His eyes are blue and pained, sharp in the lowering dusk.

Clint smiles.

~

1997

Instead of a gun shot, there's silence. Instead of pain, there are cold fingertips pushing away the hair on his forehead. Clint keeps his eyes closed, because if death is this gentle, he doesn't want to spoil it.

The rock pinning his hand is removed, and Clint bites down on the sound trying to make its way out of his throat as a fresh wave of hurt radiates through his palm. He is then lifted, cradled against leather that smells like iron and disinfectant. Scrubbed away blood. The movement jostles the arrow shaft in his leg, but Clint presses his lips as close together as possible, buries his face in the chest there. This is better than anything, and he doesn't want the hallucination to go away.

He forces himself not to count the footsteps barely audible on the side of the road. A door opens and closes, and they should be in the abandoned gas station that Clint had seen in the distance before... before the ditch. Before this, whatever it is. It's not a dream, though, not when the smell of the place, dank and rotting, is making him gag. Fingers press his head closer to that vest, but its stink is not as vile. Underneath it there's something soothing, and Clint breathes it in with short draws, heart pounding in his chest.

Something heavy drops on the floor, a bag perhaps, and then Clint is lowered down as well.

"Open your eyes."

The voice is hushed, rusty and gritty and it makes Clint shudder. He doesn't want to, but he lifts his eyelids anyway.

"Bite," the man says again, pushing something against Clint's lips.

It's leather again, and it tastes just like the vest smells. Somehow, Clint can't bring himself to care, not when sharp blue eyes watch him clinically.

And then the man moves, pulls at Clint's arm. The pop of his shoulder joint sliding back in its place is accompanied by too much pain to bear. His teeth clench down on the leather, shout muffled beneath it. Fingers poke and prod at his shoulder, then move to his palm. It's a continuous flow of hurt, and Clint shakes with it.

"Nothing's broken."

Clint's jaw relaxes, eyes rolling in his head. The last thing he sees before darkness takes over is the knife dropping from his mouth, leather handle worn with too many toothmarks to be only his getting caught by a metal hand.

~

2014

"May I?" Clint asks, pointing at the Soldier's right shoulder.

A beat, and the man nods before leaning back into the wall behind him. The gun is still in his left hand, gripped tightly, but he lowers it as Clint approaches.

Clint moves carefully, presses a palm against the Soldier's collarbone, pulls at his arm. The joint gives with a pop Clint recognizes all to well, but the pain the other man must be feeling is only visible in the tightening around his eyes, and Clint moves a couple of steps back, hands raised.

The Soldier huffs before making a fist with his right hand, a low growling sound escaping him as he rotates his shoulder.

Clint waits patiently for a while, but the gun doesn't raise again. Instead, he's being watched, assessed. He nods, bends down to pick up the notepad and the pen.

"Now you write it," he holds the items out.

With a long inhale, the Soldier pushes away from the wall. He takes the pen, writes 'Nemo' on the pad in Clint's hand. The lines are a little wobbly, but they hold the same slant that Clint has traced with the tips of his fingers over and over again.

"Ok," Clint says, handing the notepad over. "This is your handwriting, yeah?"

The man tips his chin in acknowledgement.

"Ok," Clint repeats, before unclasping his arm guard. He pulls it off to reveal the matching tattoo on his skin there, a bit faded but unmistakably the same as the Soldier's scribble.

"Who are you?"

"Nobody," Clint says, rearranging his gear, "just like you."

~

1997

Clint opens his eyes with a grunt, aching everywhere. The first thing he sees is his leg, neatly bandaged, arrow removed from his thigh. His pants are right next to him, folded carefully, and the back of his head is pounding in tandem with the beats of his heart. It's dark, save for the soft light coming from a lamp set nearby on the the dusty floor. Clint can't see it from his position slumped against the counter of the gas station. With a deep breath, he straightens, looking around, and the movement hurts behind his eyes.

The man from the road is leaning against the wall on Clint's left, his face hidden beneath his hair. He is immobile, as he watches Clint unblinking, legs stretched in front of him, a hand on a gun resting on his thigh. Clint hasn't imagined it, his left hand is metal indeed, glinting in the low light. It's entirely out of this world.

"Am I dead?" Clint rasps.

Silence follows for a beat, two, three.

"Not yet."

Clint's breath hitches.

"My mission will be over sometime in the next four days. I will kill you then."

The air flow stutters on its way down Clint's throat and his chest throbs painfully. He is dead, after all.

"Why not now?" Why delay? Why make it hurt? Another betrayal...

"You are very young," comes back in the same raspy monotone.

Clint's jaw trembles, stinging gathering at the base of his nose. He is, he's a fucking kid, and it dawns on him just how much he doesn't want to die. He thought he was ready, but he isn't, not by a long shot. The man moves then, places his gun on the floor before coming closer to kneel next to Clint. He cups Clint's cheek with the metal palm, and Clint's hands immediately raise to wrap around his forearm.

"Shh," the man croons.

With a wet gasp, Clint shakes his head.

"I thought you'd want a last wish before going. If I can provide, I will."

His eyes are so sincere, so cold, but so alive.

"I'll make sure it won't hurt," follows in a whisper.

A sob rips out of Clint. His vision grows blurry, and with it, the man's face takes a crestfallen shade.

"I can do it now if it's easier for you."

Clint shakes his head, he doesn't want now, he doesn't want later, and he curls in on himself, shoulders shuddering with his tears, as he grips tightly at the metal wrist.

~

2007

"Why do you even want to find this guy, Clint?" Natasha asks as they gear up for their next mission.

"Y'know," Clint shrugs, "gotta make sure I'm the best sniper around."

She doesn't believe him, she never does, not when Clint refuses to tell her why he's looking for the metal armed man. The ghost known as the Winter Soldier. But she lets it go, and he loves her for it.

~

2014

"What do you want?"

"Nothing," Clint says. "But I can offer help, if you're willing to take it."

"Why?" comes back, in the same gritty tone.

Clint raises his eyebrows. "I'd say it's obvious," and the Soldier huffs at that, "but apparently not. Look, it's a long story, one best told out of the way," Clint gestures around them. "I can provide shelter."

All he gets in return is a long motionless stare.

"I will never hurt you," Clint adds. "Am I lying?"

Blue eyes watch him, carefully this time.

"No," the Soldier finally says.

"Come on, then," Clint waves as he turns his back on the assassin.

Brainwashing, Nat had said, and isn't that funny.

He doesn't wait, but starts at a slow run toward the airport. He has a car parked there with spare clothes and money. He makes a quick mental check of his safehouses, and he has only one nearby that hasn't been in SHIELD's files. It goes with one of his favorite covers, Frank Roth, wilderness photographer, which means he has an explanation why he looks run down after returning from his work trips. Mrs. Geller from next door always pinches his cheek and brings him cookies. His other two neighbors are a flight attendant who's never home and Mrs. Sawyer who makes the best lasagna ever.

The Soldier's footsteps are so light that Clint barely registers them, but he's following and Clint is somewhat relieved.

They have to take back alleys, and for a stretch, it's a long run across rooftops, but they make it to the airport parking lot unnoticed. Night time helps. The Soldier eyes Clint with a little bit of appreciation and Clint grins at him.

They change inside the car to avoid cameras, but they both keep at least a gun handy each. Clint drives them through the streets, a winding path to avoid the areas law enforcement is currently converging on, and then through the suburbs until they arrive, early morning, at his house nestled with other three in a cul-de-sac.

"This is not defensible," the Soldier grits as Clint parks in the driveway.

He nods. "That's why I bought that house, too," he points at the one behind his own, "and built an underground passage between them, if I ever need to escape. I'll show you where it is."

It earns him a head tilt, and Clint reckons this is all that he's going to get, for a while anyway.

"Frankie!"

"Hi Mrs. Sawyer," he returns as he rolls the window down. "Stay here," he tells his companion before sliding out of the car.

He makes the usual chat with the old lady, learns about the weather, how the Samson girls down the street broke another window playing soccer, and she looks way too proud of it. He is promised a casserole for lunch, more like is threatened with one, and Clint barely manages to convince her to bring it over in the afternoon instead, claiming exhaustion from the flight home. In fact, he is quite tired already, after running most of the night.

He moves to unlock the garage door before driving the car inside.

"Who is that?" the Soldier asks as the door slides closed behind them.

"Neighbor. I think she has a crush on my other neighbor," Clint comments, "but she's stubborn about it."

"A crush."

Clint scratches his head. Oh...

"She's sweet on Mrs. Geller?"

That earns him a blink before the Soldier looks away to stare through the windshield.

"Yeah, ok," Clint mumbles. "Come on, I have hot water and comfy mattresses, let's get you cleaned up."

~

1997

It's still dark outside by the time the sobs subside, and Clint accepts the offered bottle of water with a shaking hand.

"Why do you have to kill me anyway?" he asks.

If he's going to die, there's no need for caution. No more need for fear. There's nothing that can happen between now and his last breath that can be worse than what he's already been through.

The man sits back down against the wall, but doesn't pick up his weapon. Instead, he draws his right knee to his chest, rests his elbow on it. "It's better for you."

"Better than what?"

A pause follows. "Than being taken," the man says with a flutter of his eyelashes that sends a jolt of something horrible up Clint's spine.

"You a spy or something?" Clint asks again, losing the filter on his mouth. It's no longer necessary, no one can hurt him for speaking anymore.

The man watches silently, unmoving.

"What's your mission?"

Nothing.

"You a soldier?"

The man's index finger twitches. "Be quiet."

It's not barked, like an order. The words are soft, nonthreatening, more like a plea than anything else. Clint swallows, but closes his mouth, and watches back.

There's something calming in his stillness, something akin to the serene moments right before he releases his arrows, and Clint slides back into that space. It stretches with the minutes and the hours, the beat of his heart slowing down. It takes a while, but soon the rise and fall of Clint's chest, minute as it is, matches the man's own steady breathing. Something shifts then, in the man's eyes, their blue somehow softer, their sharpness somehow deeper.

Dawn approaches and soon sunlight slants over the junk spread out in the abandoned gas station. There's dust settled on the empty shelves and Clint rubs the back of his hand under his nose with a sniff.

"Don't you sleep?" he asks.

The man blinks. "I will sleep enough later," he says, a quiet tone to his words that hasn't been there before.

With a swallow, Clint nods. Exhaustion is starting to seep into his bones, the ache in his body doubling with it. "Need to take a piss," he mumbles.

An index finger points somewhere behind Clint and he struggles to raise to his feet, starts limping toward the door there.

"Aren't you afraid I'll escape?"

"You can't outrun me," the man says.

Clint believes him, there's a certain grace to his movements that reminds Clint of the tigers at the circus, but unlike those cats, this man is actually dangerous. Clint feels it in his bones.

The bathroom is filthy, but Clint does what he needs to quickly, before limping back.

"There's no water," he says.

A soft snort follows, and the man shifts to his bag. There are actually two, a backpack and a long black case sitting ominously near the wall. He rifles through the first one before throwing a large pack of wet wipes at Clint. They're actually quite soft and refreshing, and Clint ends up pulling another one to rub over his face.

Everything fucking hurts, so he sits back down. His shoulder throbs, his left hand is one big bruise, palm swollen, and it takes a while to pull his pants back on. The blood on them has dried already, but it smells rank. Clint grimaces, wondering just how bad the rest of him looks. With a deep breath, he unzips his hoodie, struggles out of it, then pulls his t-shirt over his head.

A hand pushes him forward suddenly. Fuck, he hasn't even heard the man move. And Clint shivers, not from the sight of reddened skin on his shoulder, but from the way the man looks at Clint's back.

"What did this to you?"

A pained laugh leaves Clint despite himself. The most recent marks are from a month ago, Trickshot had a way of making arrow shafts leave bleeding gashes. They're healed now, but still visible.

"Missing my shot," he manages.

Metal fingers grip Clint's chin and the man turns his face to look at Clint. There's a beginning of a grimace on his face, like he knows what that means, and something breaks in Clint's heart. But the man's expression turns impassive again and his flesh fingers rub through Clint's dusty hair before he stands back up, turning away.

"Who are you?" Clint breathes.

"I'm nobody."

"I wanna be nobody," Clint murmurs, and that makes the man halt in his steps.

He stands there unmoving for long minutes, watching the highway through the windows and Clint doesn't dare break his silence, dressing back quickly. Sleep catches him unawares, between one breath and the next.

~

2005

He catches up with the assassin known as Black Widow somewhere in a shipping yard on the outskirts of Budapest. She reminds him of cold eyes and an impassive face, as she stands there, full of defiance while bleeding from her shoulder. Clint lowers his weapon, says 'hello' and offers her another life.

Fury's not happy, Coulson's not happy, but Clint has a feeling about this.

~

1997

Clint jolts awake with a pained gasp and it takes a few seconds to get his bearings. The man is sitting next to him this time, cross legged on the floor, his jacket off and Clint can see his entire left arm is made of entwined metal plates. A red star is etched on its outer side near the shoulder disappearing under the sleeve of his black t-shirt. He's also eating something out of a gray plastic bag and Clint's stomach gives a loud rumble. Without missing a beat, the man shoves the bag and the small plastic spoon at him.

"I don't have enough for two, so you'll have to settle for half," he says before drinking from a water bottle and then setting it down next to Clint.

Clint's not quite so sure wasting food on him would be the wisest choice right now, but he digs in anyway. The thing is mushy, kind of a bland strew, but he's so hungry, it tastes divine. "What's this?" he mumbles, mouth full.

"Military meal."

"So you're a soldier," Clint frowns.

The man watches him for a while, and it should be creepy, but instead it's comforting. Nobody's really looked at Clint before.

"Assassin," comes back quietly, and Clint's skin breaks in goosebumps.

He swallows his bite, drinks a bit of water, mind working a mile a minute.

"You're here to kill someone and can't leave witnesses," he concludes.

A slow nod follows and Clint shakes his head.

"Shouldn't feed the strays then, might get attached" he quips, but continues eating.

The man huffs, a corner of his mouth raising slightly. "Don't be a punk."

Clint grins at him. Well, if he's going to die, might as well enjoy his last days, right?

So he finishes the meal, and he's still hungry, but it's better now. He's wiping his mouth with the back of his hand when the man drags over a small bag, and he opens it to reveal medical supplies inside. Clint doesn't get it, why tend to a wound when he's not leaving the gas station alive... but he lets the man change the bandages. It doesn't look so bad in daylight, the arrow must have lodged in less than Clint's initially thought. Well, it doesn't matter anymore.

"What's your name?" Clint asks to distract himself from the pain while the man rubs a smelly cream into his skin.

Blue eyes raise to meet Clint's, and there's a blink followed by the man's mouth opening and closing.

"I don't have one," he finally says as he leans back over Clint's leg.

"Fine, captain nobody," Clint murmurs.

It pulls an unexpected snort out of the man, and Clint raises his eyebrows.

"That's a real name," he says. "Captain Nemo, that's Latin for Captain Nobody."

"Captain is Latin for Captain?" Clint asks, unable to hide his smile even through the ache in his leg, and that earns him an eye roll.

"Smart ass."

"So he has a boat or what?"

"A submarine."

"Huh," Clint chews on his lip. "And?"

"And what?" the man looks back at Clint as he finishes taping gauze over the wound.

"What's he doing with it?"

The man opens his mouth, raising his hand, but then he frowns. "I don't know."

Clint smiles as he pulls his pants back on. "Can I call you Nemo?"

"Knock yourself out," comes back as the man turns to put the medical kit away.

But...

"Don't you wanna know my name?"

"No."

It's simple, short, devoid of emotion.

Clint's hands keep shaking for very long hours.

~


	2. Chapter 2

2001

Coulson shoots him in the leg right through the scar from that arrow four years ago, and Clint holds a grudge for quite a long while. Nothing he throws at Coulson seems to faze the agent, and he soon squirms under all of Clint's defenses. He holds an even longer grudge for that.

But SHIELD is a heaven that offers him a way to do what needs to be done to help the world be a little bit brighter, just like... just like he did.

~

1997

When dusk settles, they climb on the flat roof of the gas station. Clint struggles, pain radiating from his leg, shoulder, and hand, but he makes it. It feels like a small victory. Over what, Clint is not sure, so he takes a moment to survey the landscape. The freeway stretches left and right toward the horizon, a long straight line, and there's nothing much around except for a sparse sprinkle of bushes. A hill is visible straight ahead in the distance, and it looks faded in the dim light.

Clint settles down against the low wall that lines the edge of the roof, watches Nemo in silence as he paces the side of the building closest to the road. He stops soon, then pulls close the long case he's carried up with him. There's a slight breeze blowing through, but Clint shivers more at the sight of the rifle Nemo pulls out and assembles with practiced moves. It just serves to enforce the reality of everything, and Clint closes his eyes, takes a deep breath.

His last days, hell it might be even less than twenty four hours. Clint's jaw hurts where he clenches it, and pressure builds behind his eyes, but he pushes away the desperation threatening to overcome him. He's not dead yet.

"How many people have you killed?"

Nemo doesn't pause where he's sliding bits into other bits Clint doesn't recognize. He's only seen a weapon like this in movies.

"Many."

"Do you like it?" Clint continues, curiosity getting the better of him.

"No."

The answer is short, clipped, almost bored, but not exactly. It sounds more how Barney's said 'sorry' before running off with Trickshot. Clint bites his lip.

"So why do you do it?" he asks, a little too quietly even for his own ears.

That makes Nemo straighten, and he turns to look at Clint. "It's the right thing to do," he says.

Clint frowns, because he's pretty sure murder is never right. Nemo twists fully to face Clint.

"Wars are won by heroes, but sometimes they can't fight all evil with good. Sometimes there are vile men that the law can't touch, so that's my job."

"Like Robin Hood?"

The corner of Nemo's mouth twitches upward.

"Like a weapon. I will do the dark things that are necessary so that the heroes in the light can change the world for the better."

Clint finds himself nodding. The world could use a little more goodness. Besides, this is the most animated he's seen Nemo so far, and Clint is proud right along with him. "Sounds nice," he murmurs, "wish I could do that," be useful like that.

Nemo's face softens, the corner of his mouth twitching again. He ruffles Clint's hair, making something swell in Clint's chest.

"Can I touch it?" he asks, pointing at the rifle.

It gets him a nod and a wave, then a lengthy demonstration on how to assemble, disassemble, and use the weapon. Clint listens, captivated, breathes how Nemo tells him to breathe, hits the leaf on the bush they've chosen as a target on the first try. It's the best thing ever, when Nemo says 'good' and pats his head.

~

2014

Clint pulls on a t-shirt after rubbing his hair dry. In the bathroom, the water runs and Clint pulls out clothes for Nemo, the largest ones he has. Well, he knows his name now, James Barnes, Steve's long lost friend, but in his head he'll always be Nemo.

He climbs down the stairs to the kitchen, starts a pot of coffee, even though he knows he'll have to grab at least a couple of hours of sleep before he feels anywhere remotely human. He's been up for over two days now, having rushed from his mission to Washington when the team he's been with had started fighting each other after HYDRA's reveal.

Never in his life would have he guessed who Nemo was, and he's shaking his head with a bitter chuckle at the thought of Nemo being tortured for decades, used as a weapon. His words from before now make more sense than ever.

"What's funny?" comes from the doorway and Clint turns.

"Nothing," he sighs. "Just thinking of the past."

A grunt follows and Clint fills two mugs, places one at one end of the kitchen table, takes a seat on the other side. Nemo approaches slowly, but he finally sits. He picks up the mug, gives it a sniff before taking a sip. He grimaces, and Clint smiles.

"Not the best coffee, I know," he offers.

Nemo watches him without a twitch, and Clint refrains from squirming.

"Your name is Frankie."

"No," Clint shakes his head. "It's Clint Barton. Frankie's a cover." He gives Nemo a quick run down of Frank Roth, and that earns him a nod. "We should get you an alias, too, especially if you're gonna be here a while."

Nemo looks toward the door at that, and Clint's heart rabbits in his chest despite himself.

"Please stay," he hurries to say, and Nemo turns sharp eyes at him. "You're safe here, I swear. Nobody's gonna find you, I am well armed and there's an exit strategy in place. I also have resources, I can help you find whatever you need."

Clint can almost taste the seconds ticking away as Nemo watches him.

"Need to know if someone is alive," finally comes and Clint slumps in his chair.

"Steve?"

"You know him," Nemo says.

"Yeah," Clint returns, moving to grab a burner phone from a drawer. "We work together."

The phone is pulled out of his fingers before Clint has even turned it on, and he raises an eyebrow.

"I won't tell anyone where you are," Clint says. "Just checking if he's alive, ok?"

It takes a couple of seconds, but the phone is returned to his hand and Nemo moves back to his seat.

Clint checks in with Natasha. Yes, he's good, she's ok as well, and Steve's in the hospital, still breathing. Looks like he's going to recover. Sam, the VA friend Steve's made a while back is with him. Clint likes the guy, there's an integrity about him that's hard to find these days.

"Steve's fine," Clint tells Nemo after he hangs up, "he'll recover."

He's not imagining the bit of tension that dissipates from Nemo's shoulders at the news.

Silence settles between them for long minutes. Clint is starting to feel tiredness pressing down on him, and he stifles a yawn in his palm.

"He said my name is James Buchanan Barnes," Nemo rasps from across the table. "He said I am his friend."

"Both are true," Clint returns.

"It doesn't seem so," Nemo says with a press of his lips.

Clint understands that, how reality can warp against itself when one cannot trust their own mind. So he stands, goes to the bookshelves in the living room, and Nemo follows.

"Here," he says as he pulls out a history book, hands it over. "See for yourse--" Another yawn overtakes him and Clint rubs at his eyes. "I'm gonna crash," he mumbles.

Nemo frowns at him in confusion.

"I need to sleep," Clint explains. "I'll be upstairs if you need me, help yourself to anything," he waves around the room.

But Nemo follows again, sits against the wall of the bedroom as Clint slides under the covers before opening the book. Clint shouldn't be that relieved he's there, and he allows the thing burning in his chest to expand as he closes his eyes. He can't afford to the rest of the time. It had taken him almost half a decade to understand what it meant. And it would be pretty ridiculous, nevermind vulnerable in his line of work, to admit he's been in love with a ghost for the past seventeen years.

~

1997

"So who do you have to take out now?" Clint asks as they pass another bag of tasteless mush back and forth. It's noon again, Clint hasn't slept in what feels like forever, but he's got time to sleep later. He's going to relish every single second he has left.

Nemo watches him for a minute, impassive as usual, but Clint thinks maybe that's just what he looks like when he's considering things.

"A man who sells drugs and weapons," he finally says.

Clint nods. Drugs are awful, he's seen a girl that trudged along with the caravan foam at the mouth one night before Barney dragged him away. He continues eating when Nemo gives him the bag. It's still a waste, but Clint won't complain. Hunger hurts in its own special way, and Clint's not a fan.

"How come you don't have a name?" he asks after he passes the meal back.

Nemo stops chewing, staring into the bag. He doesn't even blink for a long while, and Clint wonders if he's even breathing.

"I forgot it," Nemo finally says after swallowing his bite.

He hands over the bag with the spoon, and Clint takes them.

"Why?" he asks and shoves another spoonful in his mouth.

Nemo's eyes shift around the room in a rapid movement before they settle back on Clint. "Weapons don't need names."

The food gets stuck in Clint's throat in a painful lump at Nemo's quiet words.

"Nemo's a nice name," he offers.

It gets him a slow blink. "I'll forget it, too. I won't remember you either."

There's a sort of sorrow that settles over Clint at that, and he draws air through his nose. It doesn't feel good, to know he won't even be a memory soon. Maybe Barney will remember him... but Barney left him in a ditch, so Clint doesn't put much faith in that right now.

"What if you write it down," he tries, voice trembling.

Nemo's eyes widen slightly, but then he shakes his head. "Paper's not al-- I'll lose it."

"Write it on your palm, I always forget things, and," Clint lifts his left hand, but it's still covered in bruises, "aw."

"See," Nemo says, "that can be washed away."

Oh. Oh! Clint grins.

"Herby, from the circus, taught me how to make tattoos," he says.

"Tattoos."

"Yeah, yeah, he's got them everywhere and they'll last forever," Clint leans toward Nemo. This is a great idea.

"Forever," Nemo whispers.

~

1998

Clint inhales slowly, watching his target from the scope of the rifle, just like Nemo's taught him. He's a human trafficker, he deserves it, and if Clint gets some money for it to get by as he searches futilely for Nemo, well, who's to blame him.

He doesn't wipe his cheeks dry until the weapon's packed, until he's ten blocks away, huddled in a corner of a damp, stinking alley.

~

1997

There are needles and rubbing alcohol and a bunch of other useful stuff in the medical kit. The ink is a little harder to mix, but Clint manages.

"Uh, this is probably not healthy," he points to the black goo he's made out of ashes and alcohol.

"Doesn't matter," Nemo says, watching with interest.

In moments like these, he doesn't look human. He has some stubble, face a bit gaunt, and his skin is pale in the afternoon sunlight as they sit on the roof, cross legged near the rifle. From time to time, Nemo shifts to look through the scope, but is otherwise paying close attention to what Clint is doing from beneath long strands of hair.

Clint writes 'Nemo' in lines that are thankfully not shaky on Nemo's wrist. It would be meant for Nemo to read it, so Clint has ended up sitting cradled between the other man's extended legs, his arm pulled in Clint's lap. There's no twitch, no break in his steady breathing as Clint pokes and pokes and pokes.

By the time the sun starts sliding toward the horizon, the tattoo is done, and Clint wipes it clean.

"Whoa, you heal fast," he says as he swipes the ink away, but behind it there's only smooth skin. Clint's seen how Herby's tattoos had healed, and it had taken at least a few days.

No answer comes. Instead, Nemo hooks his chin on Clint's bony shoulder, brings his metal arm around Clint to run his thumb over the writing.

"Thank you," he rasps and Clint shivers.

Nemo doesn't move, and Clint doesn't want to, either. So he stays there, the slow rhythm of Nemo's breathing lulling him back into that place of serenity that's clearing Clint's head of every trace of hurt.

"Do mine," he whispers, raising his left hand.

Behind him, Nemo shifts, pulling Clint closer, before he takes a hold of Clint's left forearm. The metal is cold against his skin, the grip tight around his wrist. Without a word, Nemo picks up the pen and writes on the smooth skin inside Clint's forearm. The letters have an entrancing slant to them, and Clint can't wait to run his fingers over it.

The first prick of the needle is less sharp than Clint's been expecting, and by the forth one, he's more relaxed than he ever remembers being. He watches Nemo stab his skin with much more precision than Clint had done earlier.

It matches his heartbeat.

He doesn't feel the tear running down his cheek until it drops on the skin of his neck, right above the collar of his t-shirt.

"Shh," comes softly, but Nemo doesn't shift, doesn't stop the repetitive motions of his hand. Dip, stab, stab, dip, stab, stab, dip...

Clint doesn't remember falling asleep.

~

2012

He's grateful Loki hasn't asked personal questions, like who is Nemo and why is the name tattooed on Clint.

The rest of his mind is torn to shreds and it takes over a year for the nightmares to taper off. He's never had them before, not for all the blood he'd spilled over the years, but those had been his choices. His responsibilities. Loki's managed to pervert all that Nemo's stood for in Clint and he hates Loki for it.

~

2014

When Clint opens his eyes, Nemo's face is a lot closer, and Clint almost reaches out to touch. It's late afternoon, judging by the way the sunlight falls into the room, so it's been more than a few hours. Nemo has moved closer in the meantime, and now he's sitting by the bed, back against the nightstand, legs drawn to his chest. He's running his metal fingertips over the tattoo on his wrist.

"I was told it's a symbol of my work for them," Nemo says quietly, "a reward for obeying. What does it really mean?"

Clint clears his throat, runs a hand over his face. "It means you never belonged to them."

He looks at Clint, and his eyes are alight with things Clint can't even begin to comprehend, but alive, as they should be.

"Who to?"

"To no one but you," Clint returns, and doesn't stop himself from extending his hand this time, from sinking his fingers in Nemo's hair. "That was one big 'fuck you' that you gave them."

Nemo tenses, but then he leans into the touch, and Clint warms despite himself.

"I'm pretty sure you fought them every time they tried to remove it. No other reason to lie to you."

"How do you know?" Nemo asks, watching Clint carefully.

Clint's lips curl into a bitter smile. "Last thing I saw of you, that's what you were doing."

Nemo seems satisfied by his answer, because he nods once and returns his gaze to his wrist.

"Your handwriting's stupid."

It pulls a laugh out of Clint. "Be glad it's readable," he returns.

The corner of Nemo's mouth twitches upward in that familiar way that means he's amused.

The book Clint's given him lies open next to him, a few of the pages slightly wrinkled.

"Was that any help?" he asks, pointing at the book.

Nemo follows his gestures, and leans over to pull it closer, but manages not to dislodge Clint's hand from where it's resting on the back of his head.

"I ruined it," Nemo says and runs his hands over the pages trying to iron them out more.

"It's fine," Clint returns.

"I know him," comes next and Clint rubs his fingers onto Nemo's scalp. "I know Steve. But I don't know James Barnes."

"Makes sense," Clint offers.

With a frown and a press of his lips, Nemo turns, leans his chest into the edge of the mattress. He's so fucking close, right here in his house... Clint thought he'd never see him again, even though he hasn't given up hope completely. But now he's here, the same as he remembers.

"I like the sound of James, though," he whispers.

"Then use it," Clint breathes back and runs his fingers through the other's hair. It's amazing how Nemo's letting him do this, but Clint won't analyze it any closer, he can't afford the hope.

"Your neighbor's at the door," Nemo says next, right before the bell rings.

Well, color Clint impressed.

Mrs. Sawyer is followed by Mrs. Geller before Clint has time to even close the door behind himself, but they have hot food for dinner and half an apple pie.

Clint finishes washing the dishes before making his way into the living room. Nemo stands in the middle of the space, twirling his knife in his right hand.

"There was a tracker in my back," he says. "I felt it short, but take it out anyway," he extends the knife to Clint.

And Clint... he has to blink a few times, because this display of trust is entirely unexpected.

But he accepts the blade, runs his hands over Nemo's skin after he takes off his sweatshirt in search for the tracker, trying to stifle a shudder at the sight of scars around his left shoulder. Clint finds it, a small bump right in the middle of his back. Nemo says it's not necessary, but Clint disinfects the knife before cutting it out, bandages the place afterwards.

"I decided," Nemo says as he redresses, "I want James."

Clint smiles at him, and that earns him that small twitch of the lips.

He hands the knife back, and Nemo, no, James, he wants to be James now, Clint reminds himself, James sticks its tip under one of the metal plates on the wrist of his left hand, pries it open. He rolls his arm, and small bits of electronics fall onto the coffee table next to him. James inspects them carefully, and he seems satisfied by what he sees.

"Another tracker?" Clint asks.

"I destroyed it before you found me," comes instead of an answer.

"Ok," Clint says.

There are still chances they'll be tracked here, but he can have them both miles away by the time anyone even sets foot on his front steps.

James fixes the plate back on before looking at Clint.

"I might need sleep as well."

~

1997

Clint can't move. It doesn't feel real, watching Nemo take his shot, the recoil of the weapon against his shoulder, the way he quickly disassembles the rifle and packs it up. On the road, just a bit to the side, the car that's been approaching crashes into the ditch.

This is it, it's finally done.

He follows Nemo down, knees shaking, but he walks with him to the car. The driver is slumped over the steering wheel, a hole in his head, blood splattered all over. Nemo checks his pulse, then walks back to where Clint is standing, an arm wrapped around himself.

Moonlight makes everything look eerie.

Nemo draws the gun from his thigh holster.

The world spins.

The nozzle is cold against his forehead.

The asphalt doesn't seem real under his feet.

"Goodbye, Nemo," he exhales, closing his eyes.

Instead of pain, there are arms around him. Instead of a loud gunshot, there's ragged breathing as Nemo squeezes him tightly. Clint's knees give out, and Nemo goes with him to the ground. He holds Clint there, Clint's face pushed against his neck, flesh fingers fisted into Clint's hair. It should hurt, but it doesn't. For the first time in a long while, nothing hurts but for the thing expanding in his chest, and Clint likes how that feels.

It's a good moment to die.

"Nobody can know you were here," comes next and what? "Nobody can know you've seen me," Nemo continues, pushing Clint by his shoulders to look at him.

Clint can't breathe.

"Don't let them find you. Do you understand?"

Clint doesn't know who 'they' are, but if Nemo's afraid of them, then so should Clint. He nods slowly.

"Good," Nemo says, checking his watch. "We have less than an hour, move."

He's being dragged off toward the gas station, and Clint's mind works a mile a minute to understand what's happening, but all he can think about is that he's not dead. Not going to be either.

~


	3. Chapter 3

2014

James sleeps with his eyes open, on his back, knife gripped in his flesh fingers. Clint watches him for a while in the dim light coming in from the street lamps before settling on the other side of the bed against the headboard. James could have chosen any one of the two bedrooms upstairs, but he went straight to the bed Clint's used, on the same side. Well. Perhaps it's a defensive maneuver - if Clint's deemed that spot safe enough, then it was good to use. Clint shakes his head at himself, pushing all thoughts of analyzing James' actions out of his mind. It won't lead anywhere good.

Instead, he busies himself with checking on the damage left in the wake of the Triskelion going down on one of the tablets Stark's given him. Clint is quite sure Tony's tech wasn't compromised, the man too careful with his security, especially after that extremis debacle.

A lot of classified info has been dumped online, and most of it is already going viral, picked up by news outlets and blogs and other websites. Clint sighs, checks his own aliases. Every single one of those generated within SHIELD are burned. He checks Nat's as well, same results. He knows Nat has a few left, hell they even have a couple of matching backup identities should things get really dire. But since she hasn't activated that protocol, it means they aren't quite there yet. Clint doesn't like being out of loop like this, but he won't leave James, not right now.

He postpones it as much as he can, but he's aware he has to do the dreaded calibration of his implants before they start crapping out on him. He rubs at the scars behind his ears with a sigh. He loathes them, but he'd rather have this than watch Nat almost get killed again because he's lost his aids in the middle of a fight. After Stark had gotten himself free of most of the shrapnel in his chest, he'd convinced Clint to use his medical team. The Stark tech he has implanted has not disappointed him, though, and Clint's been grateful. However... Clint lets out another sigh before navigating to the app that allows him to control the devices. It's got five security layers in place, including fingerprint, two passwords, a secret question and retinal scan. He pushes the 'Calibrate' button as soon as he checks that the status of the devices is within normal parameters.

It starts off with a high pitch that's nothing compared to the low frequencies it drops toward. And that's actually the thing that scrapes on the inside of Clint's skull with a fucking vengeance and Clint grits his teeth against it. Blessed perfect silence follows for long seconds. Clint closes his eyes and lets himself bask in it before the tech turns itself back on.

Yeah, he can shut it off completely, there's even a hard wired switch right beneath his skin, and if he presses his fingers just so, they're going into sleep mode. But right now he has James to worry about, he needs to be as alert as possible, he can't afford any slight, especially now that he knows the people that had held James had been infiltrating SHIELD for decades.

"What happened there?" drifts to Clint as the tech comes back to life.

He turns to see James watching him, a finger pointed at Clint's ear.

"Sonic arrow a few years ago," Clint says. "I'm mostly deaf."

James lifts himself and turns to face Clint, cross legged on the bed. He watches Clint quietly for long moments, as if assessing him. What exactly for, Clint can't tell. He can read a lot on James, but most of it is hidden from him.

"Did it hurt?" James finally asks.

A huff leaves Clint, and it's a way more relieved than he'd expected. "Yeah, it hurt," he rasps. It's not the thing that's hurt the worst in his life, but close enough.

James frowns slightly, a shadow settling over his face. No, that won't do. Clint's come to terms with his decisions, has accepted this a long time ago. So he smirks at James.

"Look at it this way, you've got a metal arm, I have metal ears. Now we're both cyborgs," he winks.

James' frown deepens. "Cyborgs," he says.

"Oh yeah," Clint raises his eyebrows, "you might have missed that. Part man, part machine, fusion of biology and tech."

This time James blink at Clint with what looks to be interest. Huh. Either Clint's getting better of reading his stony face, or James is getting more relaxed.

"Here," he motions James closer before poking at the tablet, "let me show you."

Until dawn breaks, James sits closer to Clint than ever before, asks questions, comments on things, albeit in little words. But he's there, he's real, and Clint doesn't have any intention of losing sight of him again.

~

1997

Clint follows Nemo inside the gas station on wobbly legs and almost topples over when Nemo shoves the backpack at him.

"There's no tracker in it. Two meals left. Make sure the wound doesn't get infected," he says, words quiet, but clipped.

Clint nods, wrapping his arms around the bag, then watches as Nemo finds an empty canister and a hose. He moves quickly, with purpose, and Clint follows silently to the road where Nemo sets down his rifle case before striding to the car. He draws fuel from the tank, which he then pours first over the car, and then all around the station, inside and outside. The air is heavy with the smell of gasoline. All that's left is the spark.

Nemo comes out of the station with a shovel, and he nudges Clint over toward the same ditch he'd found him in.

"Did you change your mind?" Clint asks, and he didn't mean for his voice to shake this much, but here it is.

Nemo stills, looking at him with eyes that are too bright in the moonlight.

"No," he says. "You need to hide."

And he's moving again, starts digging at the bottom of the ditch. It's a little bit to the side from the station, opposite to the car, thick bushes surrounding the space. Nemo digs with efficient moves, but doesn't throw the dirt every which way. Instead he carefully piles it right next to them. He soon motions Clint closer, takes the backpack away from him.

"Down," he says, and Clint slides in.

The hole is too shallow to hide Clint entirely, but on his knees here, he can see the road through the roots of the shrubs. He settles down, wrapping his arms around his chest. Nemo fixes the backpack next to him before he starts pushing the dirt back in.

"Don't move," Nemo says as he works, "don't make one sound, no matter how small, breathe as little as possible. Like I showed you," and Clint nods.

Soon after, he piles a few dead branches around Clint as well. It takes a while, but Clint's hidden at the bottom of the ditch, with a somewhat clear view of the road.

Nemo stands next to him, shovel in hand, and Clint smiles.

"Thank you," he breathes, and Nemo blinks.

He turns to walk away, but then he shifts back next to Clint. He removes his knife from his boot, hands it over through the leaves.

"If they see you, kill yourself."

The blood freezes in Clint's veins. This time Nemo walks away and Clint hurts so badly for him. If death is a better option than where Nemo's going... Clint wishes Nemo would escape with him.

"Nemo," Clint says quietly, and that makes the man stop at the edge of the asphalt. "I'll find you."

There is no movement, no wisp of motion, but the small twitch of Nemo's flesh fingers.

"I won't remember..."

~

2009

Clint inhales, exhales, and fiddles his thumbs as he sits on the plastic chair of the medical ward. Nat's fine, she's alive, the doc's checking in and soon they're gonna let him see her. But until he sees her breathing, he's unable to sit still. When the door finally opens, Coulson comes out followed by the doctor. He gives Clint a nod, and Clint's inside in the span of half a second.

He walks more sedately to the bed, pulls a chair close. Nat's awake, watching him with a small smile.

"Hey," she says.

Clint can't stop himself from checking on her pulse, can't seem to let go of her hands afterwards. Nat doesn't usually like much contact, but now she lets him and he's grateful.

"Don't get yourself shot without me, idiot," he mutters.

"I thought you were supposed to be the idiot," Nat rasps, her voice gravelly.

It makes Clint match the smile on her face.

"Got shot through and through," she continues and Clint nods.

"Yeah, they told me. Nothing vital was hit."

"Gonna be out of here soon," she returns, squeezing his fingers.

The door opens and closes, and Coulson stops next to the bed on the other side, pen and clipboard at the ready.

"You gotta do this now?" Clint asks while Coulson pulls up a chair.

"If we finish this quickly, I might be able to convince the doctor to let you stay," Coulson tells Clint.

"Just get it over with," Natasha rolls her eyes, trying to straighten up, and Clint hurries to help her until she slaps his hands away.

Coulson, the bastard, raises his eyebrows at Clint in a 'what can you do' way, and Clint sits down with a huff.

"So, agent Romanov," Coulson begins, "on February 23rd you met your contact in Odessa."

"Yes," Nat returns. "I met agent Ronzie. By the next day we had the meet site swiped and covered. Ronzie took his position in the nest on a nearby rooftop."

Coulson shuffles through the papers he's holding. "Was it on the west or the south side of the square?"

"West."

"All right, go on."

Clint should've been there. He should've been the one covering her, but Fury pulled him out at the last moment because he was needed elsewhere. Given, it was satisfying bringing in a war criminal, but when he'd gotten the call that Nat's been shot, all sense of contentment flew out the window.

"The asset, Dr. Harvo, was approaching and Ronzie was keeping me updated on his position, when the line went down."

"Agent Ronzie didn't survive," Coulson says quietly, and Nat nods.

"I found Harvo, brought us to cover into one of the shops, then pulled him out through the back door. I found an open car, hot wired it, and we drove off. We were being pursued."

"What kind of vehicle was it?"

"A black SUV, it drove straight toward us after we passed two traffic lights," Natasha says and Coulson takes notes humming in acknowledgement. "We were near the edge of the city, got chased out. Our tires were shot about 20 miles later, we went over a cliff."

Coulson looks up at her then, with that slight raise of eyebrows that bellies his concern, and Nat smiles at him.

"I got us out, but was caught by surprise by another operative. It was a sniper, possibly on a hill top, I couldn't pinpoint the location. I covered Harvo, but got shot. The doc was crouching down behind me, he took the bullet in the head."

Fuck, Clint breathes. So fucking close. The need to reassure himself that she's still alive washes over him again, and he grabs her hand. Coulson notices, but doesn't say anything. Clint's not sure why she's letting him hold onto her in front of an witness, but he doesn't really care right now.

"Called in for the exfil team, and here I am."

"Did you manage to take a look at the shooter?" Coulson asks.

It's minute, but Nat's eyes flicker to Clint before she answers. Clint doesn't think Coulson's learned all her tells, especially not the ones she rarely lets through when she's lying. This must be extremely important if she wants to keep it hidden, must be entirely too serious if she's slipping.

"No," she says.

"All right, I think I got everything," Coulson clicks his pen closed before standing up. He throws her a long look, but then his shoulders slump. "You really ok, Tasha?"

"Yes, sir," she answers, giving him her patented smirk.

Coulson shakes his head with a muttered "why do I bother?" before moving away.

"Hey, Phil," Nat calls after him, and the agent turns. "Thanks," she says.

Coulson nods, waves Clint goodbye, and he's out.

All playfulness is gone from Nat's face when she turns to look at Clint. She pulls at his hand until Clint shifts to sit on the edge of the bed, pulls at him until she can wrap an arm around his neck, pulls until their cheeks are pressed together. This is that thing she does when a secret must be shared, but it's so sensitive, that the best way to tell it is directly, barely above a whisper, so Clint cranks his aids to a higher setting. To anyone outside, to the security cameras, they seem to be reuniting after Nat's injury.

"It was him," Nat breathes.

And Clint stills. "How do you know?"

"Metal arm."

"Which one?"

"Left."

"Face?"

"Partly covered. Long hair, almost shoulder length, blue eyes. Cold and sharp. Scared the shit out of me."

Clint shivers. Nat seldom gets scared, and it's even more rare that she's willing to admit it.

"It's him," Clint breathes, and he can barely contain himself. Finally, a trace of Nemo. Before he can stifle it, hope swirls inside of him, that maybe he'll find Nemo this time, maybe he won't fail again. "I need him," he whispers before he realizes what he's doing.

Nat pushes at his shoulders swiftly, and Clint finds himself analyzed by her green gaze. What has he done, he thinks as her eyes widen with comprehension.

"Oh, idiot..." she murmurs and Clint lets out a sound that's more like a bark than a laugh.

But then he's pulled in again, and this time her hug is genuine, her lips chapped as she presses them to his cheek.

"We'll find him," she whispers.

Clint buries his face against her neck, shudders with the relief, with the memories of Nemo brought back to mind.

"I don't know what I'd do without you," he tells Nat later, after he's calmed down, when the medical ward has quieted in the late hours of the night.

Nat rolls her eyes at him.

"No, really."

"You were doing fine before me," she returns.

In the chair by the bed, Clint leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "I'm doing better with you. You know--"

"No," she interrupts.

Clint raises his eyebrows.

"Don't," Nat grits.

"I love you," he smirks.

With an exaggerated groan, Nat turns the light off. Clint laughs.

"You're like the little sister I never had," Clint continues.

"Fuck off, Barton."

"I mean it. And I know you love me, too," he says and settles back in the chair.

"Shut up, Clint," comes from the bed.

"See?"

There's too little light coming in from the hallway, but Clint can see her smile clearly. They never know what tomorrow will bring, but for today, there's hope, and he lets himself drift off to the memories of blue eyes under moonlight.

~

2014

With an inhale, Clint wakes. He must've fallen asleep again. The bedroom is empty, his tablet gone as well, and Clint hurries downstairs. In the kitchen, James stands holding a pan and a spoon, while reading something on the tablet that's reclined against the microwave on the counter. It's a pancake recipe, Clint finds when he approaches.

There's no threat, and apparently James is a quick learner, so all energy drains suddenly out of Clint. He moves to the coffee maker, fiddles with it until it cooperates. Behind him, James has not moved yet, and Clint busies himself with counting coffee drops until he can fill a mug. He settles down, watching. He's halfway through his second coffee when James shifts, opens the fridge, looks inside.

"There's no milk," he says, turning to Clint.

With a snort, Clint rubs a hand over his face. "Yeah, there isn't much of anything around here." He moves to pick up the tablet, pokes at it until he opens up the online grocery store he usually uses. "Choose what you want," he says, handing the device over.

It takes James surprisingly little time to compile a list of things, and Clint gets the wonderful idea of ordering him some clothes as well. James is wider than Clint by just enough that Clint's clothes look askew on him, and that always draws attention. Being inconspicuous is necessary, especially now.

James lets Clint measure him with what Clint assumes is mild curiosity before Clint waves him closer to help with the choices - cheap, unassuming, dark colors, things that allow for freedom of movement.

By noon both orders arrive and Mrs. Sawyer tuts at Clint for not letting her cook for him again. Clint may or may not have suggested he and his guest need boy time alone, and that may or may not have gotten him a pat on the cheek with an enthusiastic "about time!" Well, at least that will get the old ladies off his back for a while. He adores them both, but it's not exactly safe for them right now to pop in at his door like they usually do.

The new clothes fit James better, and Clint doesn't imagine how he seems to be more at ease. He spends the rest of the afternoon watching James make sense of the pancake recipe.

"You know how to do this," James says as he starts over for the third time.

"Yep," Clint returns from where he's munching on a sandwich. "Doesn't mean it's gonna taste good."

A grunt follows and silence settles again as James continues working.

"I'm curious about something," Clint says after he swallows his last bite.

James turns toward him, holding a bowl with pancake batter in one hand and a fork in the other. It's so surreal, Nemo right here in the kitchen all... domestic. Clint's heart skips a beat, the traitor, and Clint stifles that dream immediately.

"Why aren't you asking me more about how you got the tattoo?" he continues.

With a blink, James takes one step closer. "Captain is Latin for Captain," he says and Clint stills.

Does he... does he remember?

"They wiped me, after every mission," James adds pointing at his head with the fork. "Some things are coming back. I want to see how much."

Clint nods, trying to push down his increasing heart rate.

"It explains why they did it so often," James mumbles as he turns back around.

Fuck. Why didn't he find James sooner?

"How..." he starts, but the rest of the question sticks to the back of his throat in a lump. James replies anyway.

"Pain," he says, and Clint shakes.

~

2000

"Little boy, looking for information," Bukovski drawls, accent thick.

Clint breathes in, watching the two goons that have been standing by the door draw closer.

"You know, little boy," the trafficker continues, "your money... not enough," he waves at the duffel bag open on the desk between them before he circles around. "Must add bonus," and he cups his groin.

With a sigh, Clint rolls his eyes. He was hoping he wouldn't have to do this. He puts on his best smile, shuffles closer.

"If you make me touch your dick, I'll cut it off," he offers.

Bukovski strikes, anger scrunching up his ugly face, but Clint ducks while pulling the gun from the man's belt. Two shots later, and the goons are down. Clint stops with the nozzle against Bukovski's temple, and he tilts his head with a smirk at the man's wide eyes. Being fast always pays off.

"Who are you?" Bukovski asks.

"Usually nobody," Clint grins. "But for you, nap time."

He's about to ask again about the ghost assassin, but he can hear footsteps already closing in outside the door. He swears, pulls the trigger before Bukovski has time to react, and he grabs his duffel before he escapes through the vent. He's getting double pay for Bukovski's death and there's no reason to pass that up, since it was clear that he wasn't going to give Clint information anyway.

He stops to catch his breath a few rooftops over, closing his eyes for a moment.

"I'm sorry, Nemo," he whispers, "I'll try harder."

~

1997

Clint inhales, then exhales, trying to steady his breathing. Behind him, the gas station is burning, the car as well, and the flames light the road with long smoke infused flickers. The seconds trickle slowly, turning into minutes, before the sound of an engine approaches from Clint's side.

It's a black van that looks like one of those used by the police. Only Clint can't see any markings on it. It stops a bit away, closer to the burning car than to Clint's hiding spot, but Clint can still see inside of it when the back doors open. Four men climb out, heavily armed, and Clint stifles a shudder.

They move toward Nemo, start stripping him of his weapons, while Nemo stands there, unmoving.

"What happened to the knife?" one of the men asks just as another one says "Where's the supply bag?"

Nemo's gaze shifts toward the burning station before returning to the man in front of him.

A beat, and a backhand over Nemo's cheek. Clint expects Nemo to fight back, instead he straightens, blinks without a trace of emotion on his face. Clint has to press his lips close together to stop himself from letting sound spill from his throat.

"Cut it out," another of the men tells the first one, pushing him away from Nemo.

"Don't order me around," comes back before they both steer Nemo toward the van. "Get in."

And inside the van... oh. Oh. Something stings badly behind Clint's eyes, and his vision blurs at the sight of heavy manacles being fixed around Nemo's ankles, his metal wrist.

"What the fuck is this?" the first guy asks as he pulls Nemo's sleeve away from his right wrist, where the tattoo sits.

Again, Nemo doesn't react, just watches. His eyes are devoid of the glimpse of life Clint's seen in them earlier, and that makes the hotness spill over his cheeks.

"Well, you won't be needing it," the man says and grabs his own knife from the sheath on his belt before bending toward Nemo.

That springs Nemo into action. Even tied down by his other wrist and his ankles, he still manages to take the knife from the guy and hit him in the face with his forehead. The guy stumbles back with a swear.

In that moment, Nemo's lips shift in a grin, his teeth uncovered and Clint swallows down his gasp. It's utterly terrifying and the most beautiful thing ever, with a challenge in his eyes that reveals the life still left in him. Clint's skin breaks in goosebumps.

The guy's fingers come off his nose bloodied, and it only takes him a fraction of a second to lunge at Nemo. Before Clint can blink, though, a shot cracks loudly in the night and his body hits the ground. The other man in the van sighs while re-holstering his weapon. He approaches Nemo and is stopped by the blade of the knife against his throat.

"Not gonna remove it," he says. "Not my job. But you know you'll have to explain it to him."

The grin has been gone from Nemo's face since the gunshot, and he takes a moment to asses the other guy. In the end he nods, letting go of the weapon. He allows his right arm to be shackled down as well.

Clint bites his lips so hard, he draws blood, eyes leaking, and he blinks fast, chasing the tears away, because he can't miss even one second of this.

"All's good out here," one of the two men that had been checking on the car says as they both return to the van. "Let's go."

Right before the doors close, Nemo looks toward Clint.

His eyes are alive.

Something rips out of Clint then, something entirely too painful to endure, and Clint sits there shivering as the van speeds off.

It's almost dawn when Clint climbs out of his hiding place, hooks the backpack on his back, and he starts walking, away from the road toward the east.

The ground is gravelly under his sneakers, the wind chilly. The morning sun is not enough to dry his face, and Clint feels numb.

Clint's dead. Nemo's alive.

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again everyone!  
> This story is getting heavier than I expected, which makes it more difficult to write because of all the feels. Many thanks to [Gretel](http://mollynoble.tumblr.com/) for the beta and to [Hansel](http://hrafnsvaengr.tumblr.com/) for not letting me go off tangents (well it's Molly and Hraf but I'm the witch in this instance, only instead of eating the kids, imma adopt them; who the hell sends kids to get lost in the forest, wow, sucky family much).


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning everyone.  
> Again, many thanks to Molly and Hraf (see end notes of Chapter 3 for their blog links).  
> The next update might come later in the week than Tuesday, but I'll try not to delay.  
> Let me know what you think of the story so far. :) I hope you're enjoying it!

2014

By the time evening rolls in, James has finally got a handle on the pancakes. They're pretty good, and Clint confirms when asked, that yes, that's how they're supposed to taste.

Now, though, James is standing in the middle of the living room, looking at his metal hand as if he's seeing it for the first time. The space is shrouded in shadow, the only light filtering in from the street lamps outside. James' eyes dart around, unseeing and all seeing, witnessing events that Clint can not, and he watches James from the doorway, keeping his distance. He's remembering something, Clint reckons, not wanting to interrupt the moment. But he's keeping an eye out for signs of distress, ready to pull James back to the present if need be. So Clint settles down against the door frame, slows his breathing to a steady draw.

"Sargent Barnes," James murmurs, "the procedure, Sargent Barnes, the procedure has already st-st-st--"

With a sharp inhale, James cups his left arm, right beneath the shoulder. His eyes widen, breath stuttering to shallow gasps, and Clint slowly raises to his feet.

"James?" Clint tries to catch his attention, but James is lost in his own pain.

He doesn't dare approach. Instead he repeats James' name a couple of times, but the words go unregistered.

"Nemo," Clint switches, perhaps this will bring him out of it, "hey, it's me. Nemo, you're safe."

Finally, James' eyes focus on Clint. The moment he sees, really sees Clint there, his breathing falls back into rhythm, his body relaxes, and the plates of the metal arm shift around as James makes a fist. Clint's never seen someone come back to themselves this quickly before.

A beat, and James moves toward Clint, grabs his hand and pushes the sleeve of his overshirt up. The sight of the tattoo seems to be what James has been looking for and Clint has to press his lips together. If James needs to make sure Clint is real then... fuck. Fuck this and everything.

"The book you gave me," James says, still holding onto Clint's wrist with warm fingers, "is there more?"

"More books?"

"More information," James clarifies.

Ah. Yes, he'd want that, wouldn't he?

"There's the source of that book," Clint returns. "Everything official's at the Smithsonian. We can start there, but it won't be enough. I assume the things you want to know would've happened after your disappearance in '45."

James considers this in the span of two blinks. "Yes. No."

"So... both?"

There's a short nod, and Clint thinks their options over.

"All right. How about we start by checking the SHIELD information dump tonight, and start a plan tomorrow? Gotta make sure we can move around the city safely."

This time, James' agreeing nod is firmer.

Clint gives him a small smile, and is rewarded with that twitch at the corner of James' lips.

That night, Clint falls asleep against James, where they're both seated against the wall of the bedroom, checking facts and paper trails in the SHIELD files without progress.

He wakes with first light, huddled against James, his flesh arm wrapped around Clint's shoulders. There's a gun held in his metal hand where it rests on his thigh. James is watching the door attentively, so Clint closes his eyes again, shifting closer. The hold around him tightens, and, for a moment, Clint allows himself this brief contentment as he drifts back to sleep.

~

2012

"Clint! Clint, you're safe."

It's coming at him again. Tap. And there's the destruction. Nobody ever expects dumb Barton to bring SHIELD down single handedly, but there he is. Watching New York burn.

"Clint, look at me. Open your eyes, idiot, you're dreaming."

The flames engulf the streets, and a neck snaps between his fingers. He drops the body before... tap.

And as the spell dissipates, all he can register are her unseeing eyes.

"Nemo, wake up. It's me, you're safe."

Clint blinks to see Natasha there, carefully still against the wall. He breathes in, out, and then in again, forcing himself to lower the bow.

Nat smiles and he huffs.

"You shouldn't be here."

"And miss my chance at more cognitive recalibration?" she smirks.

Clint drops his bow on the mattress before sliding out of bed. His entire body is shaking, but she says nothing, just takes his hand as they walk toward the kitchen.

He's incredibly grateful she's there.

~

2014

The next ten days pass slowly. James alternates between cooking something random enough that Clint doesn't get where the idea came from, and staring unmoving into space for hours at a time. Something shifts in his eyes every times this happens, and Clint would like to know what he recalls, but no other outward manifestations have happened since that evening in the living room.

They can't leave the house yet, the city is still riddled with checkpoints, a plethora of every single branch of law enforcement crawling the streets. It's affecting the daily operations of the dwellers, though, and complaints have been rising all over the internet and the news, so Clint expects the roads to clear soon. Then, they'd just need to avoid cameras, but that's nothing new to Clint.

James doesn't sleep much, a lot less than Clint. He likes to keep watch, though, and that warms Clint more than it should. He finds himself reliving moments of the past, thrown back into the choices he's made along the years. They've all brought him here, to this place in time, where Nemo is finally in front of him, finally within reach. Physically, at least.

There's a lot Clint doesn't know about him. There's still a world between them that Clint does know, a connection that has shaped his life so far and will stay with him forever. He is who he is because of Nemo, and nothing can change that. Not even if Nemo decides he doesn't want to maintain contact with him after he remembers more of himself. There's a high probability that Nemo, no, that James will float toward Steve, and ain't that a kicker. There are moments when Clint can't wrap his mind around the fact that Nemo, his Nemo, is Steve's long lost friend, one of the guys that tore through HYDRA all those years ago. But Clint gets it, James and Steve have a much deeper bond than Clint has with Nemo, even though, from Clint's perspective, he's inextricably tied to Nemo's existence.

They're having lunch when Natasha calls with an update. Fury wants to go off hunting the remnants of HYDRA. Steve's almost ready to be released from the hospital, and he's already asked for for intel on the Winter Soldier. There is an investigation open, someone's moved fast, looking for a scapegoat. She's giving a statement at a hearing in two hours, and Clint offers extraction should the need be. They settle on a protocol quickly, before Clint hangs up with a sigh.

They watch the hearing online as it's broadcast live, and Clint smirks at her performance. Nat is amazing, like always.

"She is your friend," James comments after Clint turns off the tablet.

"Yeah, more than that actually. We've known each other for nine years and she's become my family."

James looks around the room, eyes moving slowly over the surfaces of the furniture. "Steve was my family. I had a mother and three sisters. And Steve."

Leaning back into the sofa, Clint nods. "My parents died when I was six, left me and my older brother behind. Barney left me later."

"How did he die?" James asks, turning toward Clint, a leg drawn underneath him, the metal arm leaning into the backrest.

Clint shakes his head with a bitter huff. "He didn't die. Almost killed me, though. Caught up to him after some years, we patched things up a bit." He rubs his forehead. How does he even explain this? Clint is not... he's using the name of Clint Barton, but that boy died long ago.

"He's not your family," James concludes.

"Yeah," Clint breathes.

"I'd like to know what happened to mine," James says.

With an inhale, Clint pushes the past away.

"Well, we'll have to check archives and other records to find out about your next of kin, but I can tell you a little about Steve," he offers, and James leans closer with interest. "He was found frozen somewhere near the Arctic circle two years ago. Been working as an agent for SHIELD with me and Natasha since then. We've been taking down bad guys, or so we thought," Clint huffs.

"We all thought," James murmurs, looking down, but then he shakes his head once, as if pulling himself out of some dark places as well.

Clint gets it, it's a hard pill to swallow, finding out you've been manipulated into doing the exact opposite of what you thought you were.

"Is he happy?" James asks.

"I don't think so," Clint says. "He's a great soldier, friendly on the surface, but he isn't exactly sharing about his private stuff. I don't think he trusts us all that much, not yet anyway. Sometimes he has that look, y'know."

James raises an eyebrow. His face has become a lot more expressive and Clint likes that.

"The look of someone who lost everything."

With a few slow blinks, James considers this. He finally gives a small nod.

"Tell me about Natasha?"

"Actually, you've fought her, the day before the attack at the Triskelion."

James looks up, to the side, downward, then back at Clint.

"They did a correction right before that. I don't know why," James says.

Clint's entire body stills at the word 'correction' and he breathes slowly. "She gave me a rundown of the events," he says. "You fought her and Steve downtown."

James leans back, eyes tightening around the edges, and he runs his flesh hand through his hair. "They wiped him out of my head," he concludes.

"Quite possible."

Fuck, when will the thought of James being dehumanized like that stop hurting? Clint rubs at his chest, but turns the motion into a scratch when he catches himself.

"I think we can go check on the Smithsonian and National Library archives in a couple of days," he offers, ignoring the way the touch to his chest brings back the touch of the scepter. "I think we should dig for intel in some other places, too. Do you know where they kept you?"

"Yes," James says, "but just the most recent place. Unsure of the rest."

"All right, we'll start there. Maybe we can find some leads."

James doesn't know the exact location, but he can describe the building, the structures surrounding it, the streets. It takes a while searching online through shots of the city, but they finally find it, a decommissioned bank. James' nostrils flare at the sight, but his face is otherwise blank this time. Clint wonders what he's feeling. Not something good, he reckons.

He places the tablet away on the coffee table and leans back into the sofa. James hasn't moved from his spot this whole time, and now his face is taking that impassible set again. Before he realizes what he's doing, Clint hands sink into James' hair, rubbing the scalp lightly.

But instead of pushing him away, James topples forward. He curls up on his side, forehead resting against Clint's thigh, and Clint wraps an arm around his shoulder, cradles the back of his head with his other hand. Clint's inhale trembles as his vision blurs, and that makes James look up at him.

"Nemo," James says. "That's who you really are, isn't it? You're me."

"I am," Clint breathes.

"Forgotten by all else, but not by us," James returns, a quote from the original Captain Nemo. "I think you're my family, too."

Clint closes his eyes. If anything spills from between his eyelashes, James says nothing.

"Can I sleep here?" comes next, and Clint nods, unable to form words. "Thank you."

He draws closer then, pushing his face against Clint's middle. It takes a while for Clint to stop his fingers from shaking, but when he finally gets a hold of himself and looks down at James, his eyes are closed, body relaxed.

It feels like a balm against the hurt.

~

2005

Clint leans against the wall right next to the bars of the cell. Inside, the Black Widow paces the length of the space, with slow and measured steps, running her index finger on the metal bars. She smiles angelically at the heavily armed guards that patrol the hallway. Two men at the front, two at the other end, four in continuous movement, and about a dozen more outside. Protocol dictates a large detail, because they're in the middle of fuck nowhere outside of Budapest, where Clint's managed to catch up with her. The head of the local SHIELD office has not been pleased about his station being taken over, but Clint can't be bothered to give two fucks.

He's fascinated.

The infamous Black Widow is merely a child, about the same age he was when Nemo changed his life. Yet, here she is, dominating the space even from behind bars. Her neck is bruised with the shapes of Clint's fingers, and she notices him looking. Her lips curl at one corner, eyelids blinking slowly...

Clint rolls his eyes at her, and she shrugs with a sigh.

"I'm bored," she says.

"Be patient."

There's a bandage over her shoulder where the one of strike teams' medics has patched her up, after pulling the arrow out. She must be in pain, but her movements are just as fluid as before.

She has questions, Clint can tell. She wants to know more beyond what he's told her to convince her to switch sides. Clint smirks. She's a lot brighter than Clint was at that age, that's for sure. A lot more discipled, too. Just as ruthless, though.

Clint has read her file, knows about the training to which she's been subjected. She deserve options, to choose what side she wants to fight on. Because she is a fighter, and a good one at that. The world could use another one, someone else who can do what must be done. Clint's almost vibrating.

Don't get him wrong, he likes SHIELD, but most of his colleagues are crafted of a different cloth than him. It's exhausting to keep up the facade all the time, for everyone. With her, he wouldn't need to.

"You've disobeyed your orders, specialist Barton," Fury says as he walks in, stride heavy and wide.

"Orders needed reassessment," Clint returns without straightening from his position, "sir."

"Is that so," Fury throws Clint a dirty look with his one eye. It's more threatening, like that, but Clint's ready to fight for this one.

Fury waves at the ceiling then. "Cut the feeds, everyone out."

There are a few protests, mainly concerning Fury's safety, but the strike team shuffles out.

"Where's Coulson?" Clint asks.

"Just you and me today," Fury returns. "We're gonna discuss this adult to adult," and Clint snorts. "Don't give me that, Barton, I know you're smarter than you pretend to be."

"Fine," Clint pushes off the wall, but sticks his hands in his pockets. "She wants to join SHIELD."

Fury turns toward the Widow. All her playfulness is gone, and she's standing there at parade rest. Clint is weirdly proud, even though he had nothing to do with her formation.

"I see," Fury says. "If," he lifts his right hand that's holding a folder, "you join us, this is what you'll have to do. Take out people like this one," and he pushes the folder through the bars.

This is not what Clint's been expecting, and he answers her questioning look with a shrug.

She looks inside the folder, shuffles pages around, and with each second, her face darkens. The way she stares at Clint, then, raises the hairs on the back of his neck.

"You lied," she grits at Clint before turning to Fury. "I don't want this," and she drops the folder on the floor.

A few pages slide out, a couple of photos as well... oh. Sneaky bastard. It's a file on one of SHIELD's mock identities, an accountant whose only mistake was to accidentally launder money for an organized crime syndicate. Clint knows that file, it's given as a test in one of the critical thinking classes he's had to take.

So Clint smiles at her instead, while Fury hums. It takes her a fraction of a second to understand.

"This was a test," she says.

"One of many," Fury returns. "We need to make sure of your loyalty first."

The Widow blinks at him. "I understand."

"You'll be moved to a secure site where we can continue this."

She spares a brief look at Clint, but then she nods.

"Barton, you're with me," and Fury walks toward the exit.

"Sir!" she says, making Fury stop and turn back. "If I may, I'd like to take the reprimand for specialist Barton."

Clint barely contains his surprise. Fury doesn't. "You what?"

"I will take his punishment, sir," she repeats. "And one of my own if you agree to let him accompany me."

Fury stares at her for long moments, and Clint's afraid for a second he might do that thing where a vein on his temple starts twitching furiously. Clint may or may not have been responsible for a few of those in the past four years. But Fury purses his lips in that way that means he's going to do something super sneaky, and it makes Clint uneasy.

"You'll be his responsibility," Fury tells her while pointing at Clint. "If you betray us, he gets the bullet the to head."

Her gaze shifts to Clint again, but it lingers this time. Clint nods, and her eyebrows twitch in surprise. "Yes, sir," she says.

Fury's gone soon after, and they wait silently for the door to close. Her eyes are open enough for Clint to understand what she's saying. He offers a smile, which she returns, before she sneaks her hand between the bars. Clint wraps his own around it with a relieved exhale. This will be the beginning of something wonderful, he can feel it.

"What do you want me to call you?"

"I like Natasha."

~

2014

Clint wakes with warmth beneath his cheek, and it takes him a few moments to realize that the slight movement is that of a chest rising with the rhythm of breathing. James' metal arm is wrapped around him, fingers tight on Clint's shoulder, while Clint is wedged between James and the back of the sofa.

"Morning," he mumbles.

"Morning," comes back.

He doesn't know what to do, doesn't understand what this means. Clint doesn't remember falling asleep. James could have left him there alone, but instead he... snuggled?

Ugh. Clint needs caffeine. And a lot of it.

"Coffee," he mumbles, and James lets him go when he slides off.

He brushes his teeth and washes his face before returning to the kitchen, and the coffee maker is already turned on.

"Food?" James asks.

Clint shakes his head. There are so many questions that he has right now, but his mind is still fuzzy. So he sits at the table, watching the coffee drip into the pot. He's reluctant to look at James, but he forces himself, blinking slowly.

There is no change in James' demeanor though, not that he can see, and Clint frowns. He really needs that coffee sooner, so he grunts at the machine. Yep, there it is, done, and Clint hurries to fill a mug. He offers one to James as well.

The kitchen is silent around them. By his second refill, Clint feels more awake.

"How much do you remember about me?" he asks.

James turns his gaze toward Clint from where he's been watching the back yard through the window.

"Not much," he says. "An arrow wound, Captain in Latin, fire."

Clint leans back in his chair with an exhale. "Then why do you trust me? What makes me your family?"

At that, James stills, eyes widening slightly. "I remember fighting for it," he whispers, drawing the sleeve off of his right wrist. "I remember it being so important, that I disobeyed orders to remove it. There were corrections, continuously. I never let this go."

He cups the tattoo with his metal palm as if it's something precious, and Clint's hand wraps itself around his forearm, where his own tattoo resides.

"And now here you are, suffering for my pain. Why?" James asks. "Why do you hurt if not for family?"

Clint presses his lips together, biting them between his teeth. Why, indeed... He's very tempted to admit to everything swirling inside of him, but there are two things stopping him. James never asked for his affection, for one. And two, having this connection between them accepted by James, as family no less, it's much more than Clint's imagined he could get. Yes, family would be a good way to keep caring for James, a more palpable bond than unrequited feelings. It's better this way, he tells himself.

"For family," he nods, "yes."

There's something shifting in James' face then, and the corners of his lips lift, really lift, into a smile. It's barely there, but it's much more than before, that Clint's returning one is too wide to contain.

~

2002

"I have a personal question," Clint says after he closes the door to Coulson's office.

"Barton, I'm not a therapist. I can send you to one--"

"Aw, come on. Just a tiny question. I've even written all my reports on time," he waves the papers he's been carrying. "Besides, you're the one with all the bla bla proud of you bla bla," he rolls his eyes.

"How do you manage to always test my patience?"

"It's mutual," Clint mutters.

"Fine," Coulson sighs. "What do you want to know?"

Clint scratches his head, plops down in one of the visitor chairs. Well, no other way to ask except bluntly. "What does love feel like?"

"You don't know what love is," Coulson deadpans, throwing Clint a look.

"I know what it is," Clint returns, "just not what's it supposed to feel like."

At that, Coulson leans back in his chair, twisting his pen between his fingers pensively.

"There's more than one type of love," he says. Clint scoots closer in his chair and Coulson smiles that entirely too kind smile. Barney used to smile like that sometimes. "You've got familial love, like between parents and children, or between siblings. Then there's love between friends, which is a lot like the family one. And there's the romantic love. Which one would you like to know about?"

"All of them," he returns.

Coulson's smile turns into something knowing. Clint shakes his head at him with a press of his lips, and that seems to spur Coulson on, because he smirks and leans forward, elbows on his desk.

"I knew you liked me, Barton."

Clint balls up one of his reports and throws it at Coulson's head.

"Fury know you're this much of a smart ass?"

"There's no need to bring my ass into this," Coulson returns, way too amused.

Fine. Clint can joke as well. "Why not? It's the topic of the day every day in the legal department."

Coulson covers his mouth and laughs against his palm. Clint doesn't get it, why isn't he this friendly with everyone? He's usually pleasant, but bland on the verge of cold, except for a handful of people. Oh, who is Clint to judge anyway. He puts Coulson's motives aside, but starts taking notes of his tactics, they might come in handy one day.

After the snickers taper off, Coulson, as usual, provides. There's more than one way, apparently, to feel love. More than one way to describe it, more than one single set of sensations to beckon its presence.

That night, when Clint retreats to his bunk, he finally understands. He loves, has been in love for the past five years. It's exhilarating and dreadful at the same time, and the night trickles on with his fingers clutched over the tattoo, the thumping of his heart loud in his ears.

~


	5. Chapter 5

2014

So James can read Clint better than Clint can read James. Huh. Clint scratches his nose, eyeing the back of James' head warily. There are questions Clint has, as he keeps wondering what the inner working of James' mind look like, but he doesn't know how to ask. Right after Loki's invasion of his own self, Clint had almost shut down, and the only thing that he'd been able to swallow had been Nat's silent presence. Perhaps James will talk to him when he's ready, perhaps he never will. What Clint can do right now, however, is to help with the things he can, like planning an infiltration into the bank where James had last been held.

He's managed to get his hands on the bank blueprints through one of his contacts, and now they're surveying them spread across the coffee table. James returns with their coffee refills, sits back down on the floor next to Clint.

"I want to bring my friend in to help," Clint says. "Natasha."

James blinks at him.

"We don't know what we'll find there, how many people are left inside," Clint continues. "Besides, she'll want to meet you soon, and I'm not wrong in assuming you wanna know her as well?"

It earns him a small nod. "You trust her."

"With my life," Clint returns.

~

1997

Inhale, exhale, steady, again, inhale, exhale.

He's been watching the drug dealers around the docks for three weeks now, taking photos of them with a camera he's traded from an old man for cleaning his gutters. He needs money, a lot of it, and the best way he's come up with is to expose a few dealers to the cops, take a commission for himself. He won't steal, but his services deserve payment, don't they.

He has their patterns memorized. The transport comes every two days, and each of them gets a few packets. They pay their supplier, who then moves on to forward the money to their own supplier. It's four layers to someone who seems to be a sort of boss. He isn't, because an overheard phone conversation revealed that the man is taking orders from someone else.

That's where Clint is now, standing in front of this wannabe boss. He huffs at himself internally. Clint's a nice name, no reason not to wear it, like a trophy skin. After all, he's paid for it in full already. Hawkeye, as well. He likes this one better than Clint, but there is a time and a place for each of them.

Clint Barton died almost two months ago, on the 16th of May, near a burning gas station along a deserted highway. Hawkeye remains, a seed of another life, something that might have been. But into his very core, he is nobody. Nemo. And he's going to damn well make sure he gives the name its due. Make sure he fills this empty carcass with enough benevolence that the universe returns the real Nemo to him.

Until then, though, there are drug dealers in the streets.

"Lemme get this straight," the guy says, and his name might be something that rhymes with bitch. Perhaps Mitch or something. Clint doesn't really care. "You walked your scrawny ass in here to po-lite-ly ask me to just give you my money?"

Laughter reverberates from the Mitch guy and his minions.

Clint inhales and exhales steadily. He's got this. "If you don't want to share, call your boss, maybe he will."

The laughter is louder.

"You're fucking crazy, get the fuck outta here," the guy waves and another man pushes at Clint's shoulder.

Thing is, that backpack Nemo's given him, that thing had more than a med kit inside. It had, among other things, a gas mask and a packet of metal vials marked with a chemical name. It wasn't as hard as he'd expected to find what it meant at a library. It's a sleeping gas, non lethal. The mask, though, it's a super awesome thing that breaks into two pieces, one part glasses and one part mouth piece. It has taken Clint a while, but he's finally gotten a hang of having it on and off his face in a matter of seconds.

"Your choice," Clint returns, and activates the release mechanism on one of the vials.

Inhale, exhale, steady, and again. It's actually kind of soothing, to breathe through the thing. Hidden. Almost safe, somehow.

He takes about half of the money in the guy's duffel bag, it's not that much tonight, and then he takes all their phones as well. The contact information for the other bosses might be in there somewhere. If not, Clint will move to the next city. He's got eight vials left.

Next thing, tying them up, is a little harder than he'd thought. His leg still hurts, his shoulder still twinges sometimes, and the fucks are really heavy. But he manages.

He calls the cops from a block over, leaving behind the roll of film with all the surveillance photos he's taken of the operation while he's been studying it.

The newspapers of the following days give him a sense of immense satisfaction, even though he can't get to the bosses. One of the headlines says more arrests are happening, and Clint hops on the next train out.

~

2014

They're in the living room when the basement door opens in the kitchen, and James raises to his feet quickly. A few seconds later, Natasha walks into the room, taking in the space. She looks calm, but Clint can see her on guard, especially tense when James moves himself to stand between her and Clint. James' frame is rigid, as if waiting to attack, and Clint can't help smirking at the image.

"She's on our side," he says.

James' shoulders drop only a tiny fraction, but Clint will take it. He stands from the sofa, starts moving toward the kitchen, and during this entire time, James shifts with him. Huh.

"How about some coffee?" Clint offers.

Natasha leans around James obstructing her view of Clint, an eyebrow raised, and Clint shrugs. She rolls her eyes in mild annoyance, but that just says one thing, that she understands wanting to keep someone safe. When her gaze returns to James, it's a little bit softer.

"You drink too much coffee," Nat returns. "Make tea."

"Yes, mom," Clint mutters. He's already walking into the kitchen, while the other two still play this defensive feline maneuver of circling each other.

"You're too young to be his mother," he hears James say.

What comes next is the most undignified snort he's ever gotten from Nat.

"Not my mother," he says as he fumbles with a pan deep enough to heat water in.

"What then?" James asks and good, they're in the kitchen now.

Clint turns around scratching his temple with his index finger, surprised at the question because they've already talked about this. But James has asked Nat, it seems, given they way they stare at each other as they sit at the table. James is still positioned between Clint and Natasha.

"Friend," Nat says.

James doesn't move, taking her in with the same impassive face he's regarded Clint at first, and Clint decides it's best to observe here than to intervene, so he busies himself with the tea bags.

"What are you?" comes next from Natasha.

Wow. Interrogation. Nice, Nat, nice. Clint stifles a sigh. He keeps himself behind James, though, no need to poke at the tension.

"Friend," James repeats her answer.

Nat leans forward against the table, resting her elbows on it. "I don't think so."

The metal fingers of James' left arm twitch where he's keeping it on the table in front of him.

"I think you're a danger to him," Nat continues, tipping her chin toward Clint. "You're a wanted criminal. Soon, they will find you and Clint will get caught in the middle."

"Are you finished?" James asks, voice too monotone to bode well.

Clint eyes the water in the pan, urges it to boil faster, but Natasha's movement catches his attention when she straightens her body. The smile that forms on her lips, the one she gives the particularly bad guys right before she takes them out, always manages to give Clint goosebumps.

"No," she says.

Silence follows from James and Clint is tempted, oh so very tempted, to sneak out. But then James lifts his flesh hand over the table, extends his arm to show her his tattoo.

"I'm a weapon," James rasps. "His weapon."

Natasha blinks, pushing an exhale through her nose, and she leans back in her chair, losing the air of the spy hunting for buttons to push. It's just her now. She taps a finger on the table, while James shifts to match her position in his seat.

Clint is frozen in place where he rests against the counter behind James. He wishes he could see James' face right now, to gauge what he's actually thinking, because this is... it's painful to hear.

The sound of the boiling water breaks the silence, and James raises to pour it into the mugs Clint's already set up next to the stove. He has his back at Nat, and Clint takes a moment to look at her. This is not foreign to her, she's had the same state of mind once. But the fact that James has purposely made himself vulnerable to her says a lot more than his words.

"You're not a weapon," Nat finally speaks, voice quiet.

"I know," James returns from where he's still staring at the mugs. "But it's better to be Nemo's than... theirs."

It pushes air into Clint's lungs, and he hadn't even noticed he'd stopped breathing. Nat looks at him with a bitter press of her lips.

"HYDRA," she says.

With a small head shake, James finally turns around. There's a frown creasing his forehead. "I have a vague memory of HYDRA being the enemy, but... I knew him. He said all the right things and I knew him," James mutters, eyes sliding across the tiles on the floor.

"Who?" Clint asks, his voice breaking halfway through the word.

"The tablet says his name is Alexander Pierce," James exhales. "But the other men used to call him Captain."

Aw, fuck. Pierce did look a bit like Steve, at least in a general features sort of way. It all falls into place, how they managed to keep James compliant. How they convinced him to kill for them. Between that and the fuckery with his memories, there is no telling what they actually did to convince James to follow as loyally as he would have followed Steve, and Clint's heart flips in his chest.

"I've never seen him in uniform." James turns to pluck the teabags out of the mugs, sets them away in the sink before he places two of the drinks on the table. He hands one over to Clint, too, and the way his eyes are lit with life sends a shiver through Clint's spine.

"Why are you telling me this?" Nat asks.

"You know what Nemo is," James responds while he sits back in front of her. "If you're his friend, you know what he is," he shifts his right hand in the air toward Clint.

"I do," Nat replies.

"I'd rather be his," James presses.

Her eyelids flutter with comprehension, while a tightening ache blooms in Clint's chest at James' admission, along with the knowledge that somehow James knows what Clint's done in Nemo's name through the years. How, Clint can't fathom right now, but this talk can wait, he's sure James will tell him when ready.

Nat extends her right hand over the table, palm sideways, thumb up. "Friend," she says.

James takes it, nods. "Friend."

And Clint burns his mouth while taking a too big gulp from his mug.

With an eye roll, Natasha chastises him in Russian, and that pulls a soft snort out of James. So he knows the language. Huh. They really need that information on where James has been for the last seven decades, as much of it as they can find, so he moves to fetch the bank floor plans.

~

2005

Fury's mandated psych evaluations have been more like thinly veiled interrogations, and have lasted almost three weeks. Natasha―and that's the name she's been giving when interviewed―looks so run down, that Clint's heart pangs for her. However, she's still keeping herself straight, chin up, eyes piercing, despite the fact that she's barely slept, barely eaten, been subjected to both physical and mental tests, and has been sitting in a metal chair for hours every day waiting to be debriefed in windowless rooms that are either too cold, or too hot. Clint has been keeping close to her through it all, so he's feeling exhaustion starting to settle deep in his bones, even though he's slept more than her. So when Coulson walks with a nod into the observation room above the concrete enveloped space she's waiting in, Clint feels relief.

"You can keep her," Coulson says and Clint snorts.

"She's not a dog," he returns.

What he gets in return is a bland smile. "You're not a dog either."

Clint rolls his eyes. "You didn't keep me, I chose to stay."

"Uhuh, so more like a cat," Coulson returns around a smirk this time.

"You're the worst handler," Clint mutters and that earns him a laugh.

Coulson is going to be responsible for both of them from now on. So Clint can forgive his horrible sense of humor, because being responsible for the assets Fury considers high risk is a lot more serious than it sounds.

He's allowed to go tell Natasha the news, though, and Clint sits on the cold concrete, matching her cross legged position, as they talk. It's not long before Coulson walks in as well.

It takes Natasha less than a second to spring to her feet. Coulson stands in the doorway, hands clutched together in front of him, body loose and relaxed. He's in his eternal gray bland suit, ostensibly unarmed. This is at his most dangerous, and he might look innocently calm, but Natasha must have seen something in him, given the way she interposes herself between Coulson and Clint, body taught, ready to attack. Clint warms with something he hasn't felt before, as he looks at the back of her head. Maybe this is that friendly affection Coulson was talking about. It makes the most sense.

"I did everything you asked," Natasha says.

"You did," Coulson replies, calm never wavering.

Silence settles between them as Natasha studies Coulson. Clint rests an elbow on his thigh and leans his cheek onto his palm, watching with interest.

"My name is Phil Coulson, I am an agent with the Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement and Logistics Division," he says after a while, using his headmaster voice.

Natasha doesn't answer, but her stance shifts slightly.

"Your paperwork is being prepared as we speak. I'd like to officially welcome you to SHIELD," Coulson continues, shoulders twitching in that familiar way that draws on people's trust. "I will be your handler. You may call me Coulson or agent. What may I call you, miss Natasha...?" Coulson asks, expecting her to fill the blank.

She turns her head toward Clint, not enough to lose sight of Coulson, but enough for Clint to understand her silent question.

"Choose whatever you want," Clint says and raises slowly to his feet. He looks at Coulson over her head and there's that playful tinkle in his eyes. The bastard is too amused. To this day Clint doesn't understand how the agent got under his skin and made Clint trust him, but here they are. He doesn't doubt Natasha will soon fall for his bland accountant brotherly charms as well. On the other hand, Coulson's seen Clint violently garrote someone to death, has been hit with the arterial spray in the process, and hasn't batted an eye. Hasn't changed his attitude toward Clint even one tiny bit. It's like he gets it.

"Romanova," Natasha says.

Coulson smiles. "Would you like that westernized?"

"Why?" she asks, and Coulson offers a shrug.

"Another layer of secrecy? It's your name."

There's a visible twitch in the muscles of her arms, like she's been derailed. Clint reckons that she's never had the freedom of choosing her own name. Until now.

"You can change your mind later," Clint tells her and moves to stand next to her, but she shifts with him, keeps Clint shielded.

Coulson raises an eyebrow and Clint sticks his tongue out at him, only to be annoyingly smug.

"Later on, you'll also be able to add as many aliases you want, we'll provide the paperwork," Coulson continues.

"Is this another test?" Natasha returns.

"No," both Clint and Coulson say at the same time.

She crosses her arms and lifts her chin, but remains silent.

"How about we go with Natasha Romanov for now, hm?" Coulson says. "But we'd like you to keep the handle of Black Widow, it's gotten its own reputation and we can use that in the field."

Exactly fourteen seconds pass before she responds. "Fine," she says.

"Great," Coulson returns. He hasn't moved an inch from his position yet, even though he seems animated while he speaks. "Now, about your SHIELD assignment," he starts and Natasha takes a step back toward Clint. "I manage strike team Delta," Coulson continues, unperturbed, "which is currently only made of Barton and temporary additions on a case by case basis."

Something must have changed in Natasha's expression because Coulson shrugs with one shoulder.

"We make do," Coulson tells her. "Now, it's quite clear how attached you are to Barton," he continues, letting his arms fall to his sides and taking slow steps around the wall.

Natasha takes one more step closer to Clint, rotating along with Coulson. She shouldn't be doing this, but they're past pretending they don't have a vested interest in each other.

"We wouldn't normally allow emotionally compromised agents to work together," Coulson says.

She scoffs, loudly. It makes Clint smile.

"But we'll make an exception for you."

"Why?" Natasha asks.

"For your loyalty, not only to Barton, but to SHIELD," Coulson says.

Ah, so that's what this is about. Well, Clint can't fault them. They're good because they take care of their own, and it's natural to ask for allegiance in return.

"We trust that you'll be able to put aside your personal feelings in the field," Coulson continues.

"Trust," Natasha says with an obvious bite to the word.

Coulson stops his pacing, tilts his head. "No," he tells her, voice careful and quiet, but clear. "SHIELD doesn't trust you, not yet. But Barton does, and I trust Barton. So, I. Trust. You."

This time Natasha turns her head fully toward Clint. There's nothing on her face, but he knows what she's asking, and he nods in confirmation. Clint can see the exact moment her body loses the tension on a long exhale. Across from them, Coulson relaxes as well.

That's when Clint's stomach decides to grumble, loudly. "Food, now," Clint demands.

"We don't feed brats that don't say please," Coulson rolls his eyes.

Natasha looks between them for a moment, but then the corner of her lips raises in half a smirk. "Don't worry, I'll share," she tells Clint.

Coulson laughs. Clint groans. Natasha's smug face is the best thing since cold pizza and coffee.

~

2014

"Steve wants information on you," Natasha tells James as they gear up.

They're going in dressed as plainly as possible, hoodies and concealed weapons with silencers. After examining the setup of the bank, they have settled on a roof entry point, through the neighboring buildings. James hesitates before picking up one of the handguns and Clint exchanges a look with Nat. She tips her chin at him in acknowledgement. Yeah, they got this. Even if James can't do it, the two of them will take out all the leftover HYDRA personnel at the bank, they can't afford to be seen, Clint can't afford to have James found.

"He's going to start looking, you know," she continues. "He can get pretty stub--"

"Stubborn punk," James mutters. "He wants his friend."

"But you're not his friend," Nat says. "You don't know what you are. Not yet."

James turns from where he's been loading his weapon. His eyes are clear, but focused inwards, as if he's searching for something. After a few seconds, his nostrils flare with a huff.

"Don't want to see him yet," he says. It sounds monotone and cold, but the way his eyelashes flutter bellies something else running underneath. In moments like these, Clint really wishes he could see inside of James' head.

~

2013

"What's that for?" Steve asks with a nod toward Clint's arm.

Clint eyes Steve warily. He's usually too fast when changing in the locker room for anyone to notice his tat, but apparently that doesn't work with Captain America. There are days he can't wrap his mind around the fact that Steve Rogers is alive.

"An old friend," Clint offers. It's not a lie, but not the truth either.

Steve hums, face going soft and gaze unfocused somewhere in the space between them.

"I had a friend who loved the Verne books. 'Twenty thousand leagues' was one of his favorites," he says, the corners of his lips lifting into a bitter smile.

A friend lost, then, just like Nemo. Clint shifts, wrapping his hand around Steve's shoulder with a squeeze, and Steve nods in thanks for the support. In the months they've been working together, Clint has seen various sides of Steve, things running deep that the history books don't reveal. Maybe Clint can make another friend.

~

2014

Clint checks his watch. They can spare about twenty minutes before they have to go, so he grabs his tablet, signals Nat before sinking into the sofa. He needs a little bit of quiet, needs to get into the headspace required for the op. He runs through the layers of security for his aids, triggers the calibration, but then mutes the devices.

When he looks up, he finds Nat undisturbed in her inspection of a taser, her back to Clint, but James frozen in place, watching him. There's a slight surprise on his face that shouldn't be there. James has trusted Clint, he's thought it natural that Clint trusts James. Perhaps he should have been clearer on that. James' lips move, but Clint doesn't bother with interpreting. He's talking to Nat, given how he turns his head toward her. A few moments pass as she must be answering, and then Nat turns, winks at Clint on her way out of the room. James takes a step closer, gaze analyzing. Clint gives him a smirk, before he lets his eyelids fall closed and his head lean on the backrest.

It doesn't take long before hard fingertips press into his right knee, followed by a softer touch to his left one. Then, James' entire body presses itself onto Clint's legs, and he must be kneeling, before James crosses his arms on top of Clint's thighs, resting his forehead above Clint's right knee.

It feels like James is looking for solace, and a pang of something too painful to describe makes its way from Clint's throat to the bottom of his stomach. With a long exhale, he sinks his fingers into James' hair, petting the back of his head slowly, while settling his other hand into James' metal palm. It earns him a gentle squeeze, much gentler than Clint had ever thought the arm capable of giving, and it just amplifies the avalanche of emotions.

So Clint forces his train of thought to a halt. Nemo is here. Clint finally has him in his reach. Now is the time to protect him, keep him safe, show him what he's created.

With each inhale, Clint fades away.

With each heartbeat, Nemo's closer to the surface.

Swallowing hurts and his eyes sting, his stomach convulsing with the memory of that night. He draws from it, draws the monster out, tiny bit by tiny bit...

And silence.

Painless stillness.

His mind is quiet, mission clear.

James lifts his head and Clint looks at him. James is just as motionless, caught between one breath and the next. So Clint inhales, exhales, over and over until James matches the rhythm. He shifts his fingers to press them onto James' pulse, and it's the most soothing of feelings.

In the doorway, Natasha is waiting, arms crossed, and Clint smiles at her. She returns it, a genuine movement of lips, before she tilts her head. They need to go. So he nudges at James' shoulders, stands up, and turns on the aids.

He can feel James' eyes boring into him as they finish gearing up. James is suddenly more relaxed, limbs looser. He's coiled with flexible tension now, instead of the rigidity of the past few days. Maybe Clint should have done this sooner, should have shown him already what he's left into this world. But better late than never, he sighs to himself, content. It looks like James needed to see how deep Clint is actually connected to him.

After seventeen years, that place inside of him that kept feeling ripped open is finally getting its edges knit together, and Clint basks in it. Finally.

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again o/  
> Thank you for reading! And many thanks to Molly for the beta :)  
> Ok, so work is getting busy for me again. I will NOT put this story on hiatus, I'll keep working on it, but we'll see if I can make a chapter per week. I can't promise anything at this point. Just know that it will continue to be updated.


	6. Chapter 6

2002

Clint has been with SHIELD for over a year now, and this is his first leave. He can't wait, fingers itching. Yes, they will most likely be surveilling him to see where he goes and what he does, but he's not an asset for nothing. He gets out from under the noses of the agents assigned to him in the first half hour and then he's on a plane to Mexico City because he has a target there.

It's a guy, appears to be a run of the mill business man at first glance, big mansion, foreign relations, a lot of money. But he's been aiding, if not running the Mexico side, of a human trafficking ring. That, and it seems he has an interest for underage girls, which is not sitting well with Clint. The guy is known as Juanito in the right circles and he's gotten on Clint's radar while he was sifting through whatever SHIELD files he could get his paws on. An unattended workstation here, an open door there, and Clint had hit the motherload with a database that SHIELD keeps on those it can't bring to justice.

Clint had almost rubbed his hands.

It doesn't hurt that Juanito has been, in the past, the host of a man known as an assassin with a covert organization that might or might not have ties to a string of hits, one of which had been rumored to have had a man with a metal arm participating. It's all circumstantial and too loosely connected, but Clint will take any lead.

Also, Juanito is long due for an execution. Or a castration. Clint will decide depending on mood and crankiness.

He already has the layout of the mansion memorized when he approaches, then surveys the grounds. It's a house with a lot of land around it, tucked away far enough from civilization that no one might hear any gunshots or screams.

It doesn't take Clint long to count the guards and the staff. He tries not to take anyone out without a good reason, and he mostly manages. The staff is secured in the walk in freezer with a timer for door release, most of the hired goons with them, while the four that had tried to take Clint on are sadly departed to greener pastures. Clint can't find it in himself to care much about it, not when he's in Nemo mode. Sometimes he feels guilty about not caring, but most times it's just the cold harsh fact that a mission is a mission and obstacles must be removed.

He's never claimed to be a good man.

Nemo himself has never wavered. So Clint never wavers either.

It's all for a better future, for a happier world.

For others.

He is beyond saving.

Clint expects to find Juanito asleep, even though it's mid day and the sun shines brightly, given how his file said that he usually partied all night. What Clint doesn't expect, though, is to find Juanito naked on his bed, hands raised placating toward someone pointing a gun at his head.

More so, this other person is a girl, he can't see her face, but she's small, her shoulders narrow and her arms thin.

She stands there just as unclothed, legs braced on the floor, aiming with both hands a gun that looks a little too big between her palms.

A beat, and she turns, kicking a leg out, tries to bring Clint down, but he slides away, grabs her weapon just as she punches him in the sternum. Clint can feel the bite of the hit even through his tac vest. It's a little unexpected, and that surprise is why she manages to take the gun back from his hand. From the corner of his eye he sees Juanito moving, and he's glad the girl is on the same page with him, because she turns toward the guy, while Clint draws his own weapon.

"Don't move," Clint says.

A few seconds pass as Juanito, in his middle aged splendor, sits back down on the mattress, hands raised in the air.

"He's mine," the girl says. "It's my kill."

That confirms it, and Clint shudders. She's here for a hit. He takes a look at her then, really looks. Her long hair is a light shade of red, her green eyes wide, and her lips are parted for too quick breaths. Her pupils are dilated, there's a slight tremor in her elbows. She's scared, but she's hiding it almost perfectly.

It's highly likely that she's one of the assassins trained by the Red Room. Clint has heard of them and their tactics. He wishes he could go dismantle their organization, but he doesn't have the resources right now. But maybe he can help this girl. There is something about the bravery in her that speaks to him, and Clint decides to listen to his instincts.

"How about we tie him up while we negotiate?" he asks.

Her eyes shift minutely to the door, but Clint speaks before she can.

"Nobody will disturb us for at least an hour, got them all locked up in the fridge."

It takes a few seconds of consideration, but she relents. Clint goes in to secure the fucker to the poles of the bed with his own ties while the girl keeps her gun trained on them. She hasn't moved an inch, but Clint is sure, for some reason, that she won't shoot him in the back.

"What's your name?" he asks after he shoves a sock in Juanito's mouth to keep him quiet.

"What's yours?" she returns immediately.

"I'm nobody," Clint tells her, his old words tumbling out of his mouth. It feels so good to utter them again. Ever since he got into SHIELD, a rumor has been running around that the assassin known as Nemo has been killed. Clint had liked that enough to never contradict it. This girl, if she lets him help, will never admit to someone else being here. It would mean death most likely. Clint has come across operatives driven by the fear of failure before, and it's not a pretty thing. "You can call me Nemo."

She licks her lips, then looks at him, assessing.

Clint removes his goggles, but leaves the mouth piece of his mask on. That's the best he can do for her right now.

It seems it's enough, though, because she lowers her weapon.

"Sasha," she says.

"Nice to meet you, Sasha," Clint returns. "Tell me something, did he put that thing in you?" he asks while he points at Juanito's crotch.

Because... because... he can't stomach that. She looks so young, most likely somewhere between fourteen and sixteen. Assassin or not, it still doesn't make it right. Clint's been in this situation before, where he'd had to pretend and use charms on fuckers, but he's always made sure all his clothes stayed on.

The look she turns at him, like she is discovered, found out... like she has failed, it drives a growl out of his throat.

She shakes her head.

But it won't stop here. She'll be faced with this again, and she won't survive if she can't do what she needs to.

So Clint does the only thing that he can think of to spare her future hurt, the only thing other than putting a bullet through her head. He gives her an out from herself.

He crouches down in front of her, moves slowly before pressing his gloved palm on her abdomen. Then lower, until he can cover her exposed parts.

She swallows, but she's trembling, and the point where the nozzle of her gun rests against Clint's temple shakes with it.

"Your body is a weapon," Clint says carefully. "Use it like you would any other. Let them touch, they won't get to you. You know why?"

Her eyes are wider as she slowly shifts her head from left to right.

"Because weapons don't feel. They do their jobs. They get dirty, you clean them."

Her jaw clenches and she draws air through her nose.

"So whatever and whoever touches your body, they will not live to tell the tale. You'll end them, and then clean yourself."

She raises her chin, a deep breath making her chest move.

"You're a weapon, Sasha, and you'll be unstoppable."

The sound of the gunshot reverberates loudly in the room. The feathery curtains at the windows move with the breeze in a light flutter, just like Sasha's eyelids as they fall closed.

Clint finds himself grinning as he checks on Juanito, makes sure he's dead.

"Listen," he calls, waits for her to look at him. "I figure you don't even imagine a life outside the hell hole you're going to return to, but if you ever get out, find me."

It earns him a frown, but Clint taps at her cheek.

"You'll be magnificent," he tells her again, then leaves.

He hasn't found anything about Nemo, but Clint hasn't felt this sort of satisfaction in a very long time. He asks the universe that she makes it.

That she survives.

~

2014

After parking a few blocks away, they approach the bank through the surrounding buildings. They take their position on a roof under the cover of night, watch through the back windows. The place appears deserted, but for a few movements here and there. It seems there are still people inside, most likely scientists and protection details. From where they are to the access door on the bank's roof is only a jump, which is easy enough for Clint and Nat. Behind them, James rolls his shoulders, assessing the distance.

"Status and tactic?" Nat asks.

"I'm good," Clint returns. "No prisoners, unless they present as possible interrogation subjects."

"No witnesses," Nat repeats with a nod.

It feels like the old days, before Loki fucked with his head, when his conscience used to be cleaner. It's a shame what happened to Clint, but the Nemo part of him still grimaces in disgust at it.

And isn't it the motherload of all coincidences that James has been subjected to this... this violation.

Clint growls, but Nat's hand on his arm cuts the sound off.

Right. Focus.

James lands fluidly next to them, and they all move toward the entrance. Clint watches him from the corner of his eye as they make their way down the stairs, but can't really gauge what he might be feeling right now.

There are two guys up ahead, Clint recognizes them from a mission long ago. Nat signals before running up to the smaller one, garrote in hands and Clint rushes at the other, smacks his shoulder into the guy, pressing his chest against the wall. A rib cracks with a satisfying sound, and Clint wraps his arms around his neck, twists.

He lets the body drop to the floor just as Nat's target hits the ground softly, and Clint glances at James. He's watching, unmoving. Hm.

They make their way toward the ground floor in much the same manner. Silently and deadly, albeit slowly. James has been a step behind them at all times, not necessary for him to engage, until, while Clint and Nat are busy with two more guys, a third rushes over from a nearby room. James catches him, with his metal hand around his mouth, holds him against a wall as he wiggles uselessly, fingers scrambling at the unyielding metal.

James' eyes slide to the side, from Clint to nowhere in the darkness of the space. He's hesitating.

Clint's been expecting this. It's what he did after... it's what Nat did, too, some time long ago. They've both been there and it's a place that gets assets dead.

Nat's the first to get the kill, and she pulls her gun for the first time as she approaches James. Clint hits harder at the struggling man beneath his knee before embedding the blade of his knife between the vertebrae of his neck, and then he stands.

"We can't be seen," Nat says quietly.

James frowns with a bitter press of his lips. He knows what he must do, that's clear on his face, but he doesn't seem like he wants to do it.

"That's why I'm here," Nat continues. "To give you a choice. You know he can't do it by himself," she tilts her head toward Clint, "you know he needs back up."

A beat, and James nods.

"I'm here to do that. We'll keep all of us safe. You decide what you want," she finishes, before resting the nozzle of the silencer against the guy's head.

She squeezes the trigger and James lets the body fall to the floor.

Clint can't fucking read his impassive face and that makes his heart feel like a painful lump in his chest.

He needs James to be ok with this. Back at the safehouse, James has seen the change in Clint, but showing him what he has really become is a whole different deal.

~

2005

"Come out and fight me, coward!" she yells, holding onto her shoulder where the broken shaft of one of Clint's arrows is jutting out.

After a race through the streets of Budapest, he's finally caught up with this particular Black Widow SHIELD had been hunting for months, managed to get a few shots in. He climbs down from the low roof where he's been perched, watching her as she stumbles through the deserted back alley, making sure she doesn't see him coming.

"Hello," he says, bowstring taught as he aims at her from ground level.

He's two steps behind her, and he shouldn't be this close, but something pulls him toward her. She's lost her guns already, earlier, courtesy of his well aimed shots, but that doesn't make her any less dangerous.

A beat and she turns. She runs into the wall on her right, uses it to jump Clint. They roll to the ground, Clint's bow clattering on the asphalt. He's surprised, though he shouldn't be, she's a Black Widow after all, an infamous one at that. Nobody's even seen her face properly until now.

Until Clint, as he catches her around he neck. Until he slams her hard against the gritty surface of the wall. Until he looks at her green eyes, so close he can almost drown in them. Until... Clint's breath freezes in his chest.

It's her.

Clint lets go, takes a step back, and she leans heavily against the wall, wheezing visibly. But then she raises her chin, just like she did once before, a challenge in her eyes.

"Sasha."

That pulls a reaction out of her, as she stills completely.

"I only gave that name to one person," she returns.

"Are you sure?" Clint raises an eyebrow.

She inhales, her green eyes almost dark in the twilight. Clint's shoulders slump.

"My offer still stands," he adds.

All that earns him is a grimace. Ah, she's tired. Exhausted of killing. He can see it now, in her gaze, although her stance is nothing but defiant.

"The organization I work for lets me choose my missions. If I don't want to, I don't go," Clint continues.

The corner of her lip twitches with disbelief. That's ok, Clint will not give up so easily.

"Most missions are non-lethal anyway, just there for backup, or put my skills to breaking into vaults undetected. It's fun, actually."

She doesn't believe him, and Clint understands that.

"Sasha, when is an assassin not an assassin?"

"When it's an executioner," she returns.

Clint dips his head in acknowledgement. "If you don't want to join me at SHIELD, then join me as Nemo. We'll take down anyone you want. I'm offering you a chance at volition. No more orders, no more punishment. Nothing but your own decisions to live with."

He can picture it already, and he's unable to stop a smile from forming. He can't shake it off, this feeling that she's important, she's like him, she might be a friend.

A real one.

"I'm giving you a choice."

She thinks about it for long, slow beats, barely blinking. And Clint lets her read him.

"Best choice: join SHIELD to join Nemo," she finally says. "But you can't offer any guarantees about SHIELD."

"True," Clint returns. "But they are much easier to escape from."

A second, two, and she relaxes, slides down to sit heavily on the ground.

Clint's smile turns so wide, it almost hurts.

He calls it in, gets yelled at, but it doesn't matter, because she's smiling back at him.

"What's your name?" she asks as they wait for exfil.

"Nemo, like I told you," Clint returns, "but SHIELD knows me as Clint Barton or Hawkeye."

"I'm not really Sasha," she says.

"I know," Clint replies and helps her up as a strike team approaches.

~

2014

The vault of the bank, while guarded by four more heavily armed men, only hosts a couple of middle aged and scared guys, most likely techs. They seem more wary of James than of Clint or Natasha, so they really must be in the right place. That, and the ominous medical equipment crowded around a chair that sports manacles. A flash of Nemo tied down in the back of that van passes through Clint with a full body shiver.

The two techs are huddled over in a corner, they cower and their entire demeanor screams unimportant. Nat confirms this when Clint asks for her opinion in a careful whisper while James takes in the place.

So why has the bank been this heavily guarded? Why the four guys posted at the vault? There must be something important left over in here. Perhaps it's just the chair, but perhaps it's something more. No other reason to risk capture after the so very public exposure of HYDRA operations. This site missing from the information Nat's released online already tells them that there have been things HYDRA had managed to hide.

James is pacing the room slowly, poking at things with the tips of his metal fingers. Clint watches him as he lingers on the manacles, but his face is just as expressionless as it's been through the entire infiltration. Something lumps into the back of Clint's throat, because he wishes he'd know what James is feeling right now, while he doesn't, at the same time. Really, really doesn't, because he already...

Clint rolls his shoulders, takes a deep breath. It's time to ask questions, but Nat's fingers on his sleeve stop him.

"Want me to do it?" she whispers.

With a swallow, he shakes his head. If James is going to stick around, he might as well see this too.

So he moves with purpose, grabs one of the techs by the neck and drags him to the side, pushes him against the deposit boxes covering the walls of the vault.

"I don't know anything," the guy hurries to say.

Clint smiles at him, that thing he's spent months practicing back when he was still new to this, that thing that looks kind but instead augments fear. "Of course you do. We just have to help you say it."

"I've been working around him," the guy wheezes, a challenge in his eyes as he tries to gather the remaining bravery he has left, "what makes you think you can scare me?"

But he's afraid anyway. Clint looks at James, finds James watching intently. Maybe a change of tactic is best in this situation.

"You're old enough to know about Nemo, aren't you?" he asks the guy.

The way his eyes widen confirms it.

"Tell us what you remember," Clint nudges, his fingers squeezing tighter.

The man gasps before words tumble out of his mouth. "He took out a lot of friends of the high-ups, caused panic for years. There was a hit out on him. When he was caught, people were relieved."

The guy's eyes skitter to James, but not to his face. They settle lower, and Clint sees James raise his hand to wrap his metal fingers around his right wrist.

"Nobody found out what his connection to the asset was," the guy rasps. "Coinciden--"

He chokes when Clint cuts off his air supply. Hm, he hadn't known at the time that the ones he'd been taking out in his early years had been HYDRA-related. Well, another reason to not regret it. On the contrary.

Clint lets the guy breathe again, watches him cough as he inhales ruggedly, waits until he can focus on Clint.

"Guess what," he whispers, smiling that smile again, "I'm not dead. Say hello to Nemo."

The man Clint is pinning to the wall stills, his entire face paling so fast he looks white as a sheet.

"Th-th-th... deposit boxes!" comes from the other tech that's curled on the floor in the far corner.

They all turn toward him and the guy points a trembling finger around the room.

"Files, spare parts, recordings, medication, handling instructions," he says, almost shouting as his voice shakes. "I-I... I was assigned your file, to study if you were enhanced, before being dispatched on asset duty, before... when you were gone it was easier to manage him," he continues, barely stopping to breathe. "I know... I know I'll die tonight," and now tears are spilling down his cheeks, "but please make it quick."

"Why would I do that?" Clint asks, the cold that's settling in his bones seeping into his voice at the thought of these creatures causing James pain for years.

"He... Nemo... I..." He looks between Clint and James then, pleading. "We didn't hurt him, we took care of him, I swear!"

James snorts, loudly, a grimace curving his mouth downward, and this is the first sign of emotion he displays. Clint drops the man in his grip, takes a step closer to James. To the side, Nat watches, cross armed. She's had a hand in Clint's activities as Nemo, but that had been very covert after his rumored demise. She knows most of what he's done before that, but she also knows how close Clint had gotten to regret it all after Loki. She nods at him in support and he repeats the gesture in thanks.

"You will tell us where he's been held before this place," Clint tilts his head toward James, "and then you'll die."

Turns out some of the files in the deposit boxes contain all sorts of pertinent information to the Winter Soldier, from base locations to even some of the missions he's done. There are cryo cycles described in between various experiments that make Clint shudder and Nat grit her teeth. James has a permanent frown on his face as he skims the pages.

But this is not the time, nor the place to linger. So they haul everything they find in a couple of duffel bags. It's time to go.

With a sigh, Clint turns toward the techs that are again huddled together in a corner, draws his weapon. He hasn't had any intention in lingering anyway. James' fingers curling around his wrist stop him, and Clint looks at him, eyebrows raised.

A beat, then James takes the gun gently from Clint's grip. Clint expects him to argue leaving the tech alive, but James points and pulls the trigger himself, once, twice. It's done.

"No witnesses," James says before moving toward the exit.

Nat looks pleased, but there is something in James' posture, something rigid and cold and a little dead.

It stabs right into the middle of Clint's chest, so sharply that his knees almost give out.

~

2005

After a trip to the cafeteria and a really tall pile of papers that Natasha had to sign to be officially instated as an asset with SHIELD, Coulson leads them to the barracks, assigns them both a bunk each.

Clint is not surprised, though, when Natasha follows him into his own tincan of a room. He sits on the bed while she leans against the closed door behind her, head bowed and eyes trained on the floor.

"Thank you," she breathes, sounds stuttering into each other.

It's not a thank you for now, but for... he draws air, lets it out in a careful exhale.

"You saved me, that day," she continues, and Clint would like to see her face, but her falling hair is obscuring her. "I never... nobody ever touched me again."

Clint swallows. He nods, even though he's not sure she's looking at him right now.

"Am I magnificent?" she rasps, barely there.

"Incredible."

~

2014

It's still dark by the time they return to the safehouse. Nat is taking a nap in the other bedroom, while Clint is curled up on the floor of the one he and James have been using, back against the wall in a corner.

"How many have you killed?" James asks from where he's sitting on the foot of the bed, elbows on his knees.

"Many," Clint rasps.

Funny thing is, he's done all of that in Nemo's name. He's tried making the world a better place, just like Nemo had been doing.

So why does it feel like he's failed James?

"It didn't start off as straight up hits," he says, "at first I tried to get evidence on them and I turned them in. But the more vile they were, the more untouchable. So I had to take them out myself."

James threads the fingers of his hands together, eyes on Clint, and Clint inhales with a shiver.

"Did you enjoy killing them?" James asks.

"No," Clint replies, wrapping his arms around himself. It feels cold.

"So why do it?"

A half shredded sob wrapped around a bark of laughter rips its way through Clint's throat. They've had this conversation before, albeit the other way around.

"Wars are won by heroes," Clint whispers, repeating Nemo's words from before, words that are forever burned into his memory. "Sometimes they can't fight all evil with good. Sometimes--"

"There are vile men that the law can't touch, so that's my job," James finishes for him.

He remembers this. Clint stills.

"You did all that in my name," James raises, pads closer, his bare soles silent on the floor boards.

Clint can't move. James crouches in front of him, his knees against Clint's legs.

"Good," James breathes, his hand resting on Clint's shoulder. "You did great."

A shift, and Clint finds himself wrapped up tightly in James. So he pushes his forehead against James' collarbone, a tight lump stuck in the back of his throat. But before Clint can say anything, James' voice vibrates against the shell of his ear. And even though his words are barely above a whisper, they're as clear as the moonlight falling in through the window.

"You're wonderful, Nemo."

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again o/  
> This chapter has been delayed quite a lot. Thing is, work is very stressful for me for the next couple of months, so when the weekend rolls around all I want is to write fluff and decompress. Nameless is quite a heavy fic, though, and if it's going to be worth anything, I need to really focus on it. Hence the longer delays between chapters. But as I said, it's not going on hiatus, it will just take me longer to write. Thank you for your patience and for reading! :)


	7. Chapter 7

2001

"Someone... is using your name. Our good work. To cause harm to this world."

 _It has no name._ He said so.

"Look at me."

It shouldn't. Those eyes hold power. Pain.

"Look at me, Soldier."

They're wrong. The eyes. They should be something else.

"You will find this impostor and stop him. You will have free reign on his hunt." He never looks away. Never. Holds it there, like a possession.

"Are you ready to make the world a better place again?"

_No._

"Prep him."

~

1932

"Bucky! Look at me!"

Bucky turns to where Steve's shouting from and almost screams himself.

"Get the hell down from there," he waves. "Your ma's gonna be mad at me if you fall."

Steve crosses his arms with a pout from where he's wobbling on the rails around the wooden dock. "So you don't mind if I fall?"

"There's water on that side," Bucky points behind Steve, "and this part's only as tall as you," he finishes with a laugh.

It earns him a glare. But he would lie if he said his heart didn't rabbit in his chest. Steve's just gotten over a bad cough, Bucky really wants him to enjoy it while it lasts.

"How about we go ride the Cyclone?" Bucky offers and Steve's shoulders slump as he carefully lowers himself in a sitting position.

"They won't let me on," Steve sighs, "not tall enough."

"Aw, don't worry. We'll tell them you're my little sister," Bucky snickers.

"Jerk!"

The apple he's given Steve earlier flies toward his head and Bucky catches it.

"No appreciation for gifts, you punk," he mutters, but walks over to give Steve the fruit back.

He'd tried getting an orange, but he could only convince Mr. Bernolli from the grocery store to part with one of the old apples today.

~

1943

"Look at me, Sgt. Barnes. Yes, that's good. Another dose and we'll see."

See. See what? He can't see, there's nothing here but cotton and darkness and something cold drilling into his temples.

"You're doing wonderfully."

He's not doing, not... no. This drilling. But it's not carving holes, just like he isn't doing. It's unwinding itself like snakes of lighting.

There's... there's a blue apple.

It should be folly, but it feels natural. That the apple is blue. That everything is blue.

Just like the waters of the ocean.

Waving...

Shimmering...

Pulsing within.

The apple turns green and gold and blue and it sits inside a submarine.

"Forgotten by all else, but not by us."

He is forgotten, lost, just like the body that lies in the dark depths below them.

"We're both cyborgs."

The apple is a fool. He dives into the water, reaching out for something so precious, it rips through him on the inside.

"Main directive: return to base. No, no, that's a satellite. Hey... fuck! Fuckfuckfuck, get down! Look at me, you're safe, you're..."

The apple is wrong. There's no escape now.

"A door opens from both sides."

Talking nonsense.

"You have heart."

Bucky laughs at it. And the needle pushes through skin, pricks and aches and comforts gently, mending. Caressing his heart.

"Nemo," the apple says, "it's me. You're safe."

Who is Nemo? His name is James Barnes.

James Barnes. Sargent. Three, two, five, five...

"Bucky? It's me, it's Steve."

He must still be dreaming of sandy blond hair and bright eyes, must imagine Steve instead of him, because the punk's face is here, is near.

"Steve"

"Come on. I thought you were dead," Steve says.

"I thought you were smaller."

Everything hurts, but Bucky follows. It feels like he's left someone behind, but the pain in his temples shakes him with every step he takes, so he chooses to focus on what's ahead, on Steve and his new body.

This... this banter between them as they run through cold corridors, this feels familiar. So Bucky pushes away thoughts of arrows, and blood, and kindness, and pain.

~

2014

James looks at Clint. Nemo.

For the first time, it feels like he's finally seeing whatever he was supposed to. During the past days things have been coming back to him. They feel removed, like watching moving images of another life, not even continuously evolving, but stuttering and breaking off at the middle.

All except for that damn apple.

A hallucination he's recalling, for some reason. Clint's said something about cyborgs and James' head has filled to the brim with it. Zola's face is in the memory, so he surmises it had happened during the time he was a prisoner during the war. It overlays onto the gas station he's associating with Clint, onto reality as well.

His head is playing tricks on him again, and he decides to go through every little memory, bit by tiny bit.

He starts with Zola, tries to pull forth everything about the man.

Someone drags him through the snow, and James jumps to his feet, tries to get away, but he's tied down to a bed. Tied down and it smells of rotten flesh, it smells of burning skin, and the metal hurts.

It's there, instead of his hand and James stares at it, unbelieving.

"Sargent Barnes," Zola says, "the procedure has already started..."

No. No! Not again, his arm, his arm is gone--

"Nemo, hey, it's me. Nemo, you're safe."

Clint. It was a memory, James is long past the torture, here, in this place. But... it's all out of order. Clint's words shouldn't... how would the apple know? He might be still trapped inside its ripples, drowning Clint's blue and gold and green irises with azure sharpness.

James moves, checks on Clint's arm again. Yes, it's there, it's still on Clint's skin, his own handwriting.

Clint is real. James is real.

~

2001

The mission objective is to track down and take out the assassin known as Nemo. The mission time frame is ten days. The location extends through two neighborhoods and a shipping yard, where covert teams of operatives have trapped the assassin. The Soldier is here to hunt him down. It's what he is made for. His purpose.

The Soldier surveys the city around him from the rooftop he's been dropped on, the tall crammed buildings glinting in the sunlight. He doesn't know the name of the city, just that every sign is in Russian and the sea is stretching out to his left. Between his position and the port there's an array of warehouses. Two fully functional toward the north, he should avoid those, while the few at the south look deserted, windows broken and birds flying freely around. From where he stands and all the way to the right, apartment buildings are filling the space. The ones right at the edge of the shipping yard are decrepit, either too noisy or too quiet. The Soldier takes stock of the inhabitants of the area for a while, mapping out streets, back alleys, and dead ends in his head, then glances at his covered right wrist.

He's been working to ensure the world is a safe place for a very long time. He knows it in his bones, somehow, that he's had a strong influence on things. The Captain says so himself, and his praise means going directly to storage instead of correction, so the Soldier strives to achieve it.

Yet.

He frowns at the word written beneath the sleeve.

This is his. He's earned it. For all the times he's been at peak performance. For all the times he hasn't fought correction. For each and every smile the Captain turned at him.

And now the assassin is using it to smear his work.

Yet.

Something shimmers under his awareness.

With a head shake, the Soldier pushes it away. Now is the time to focus. So he starts his sweep of the area, keeping to the roofs as much as he can, avoiding climbing down into the streets. The sun starts to lower toward the west, giving the expanse of water a glimmer that pokes at the back of his head.

That's when he catches sight of a man in a suit. He is running, looking entirely out of place between the blue overalls of the workers returning to their homes. The Soldier follows, until the man in the suit meets with another one. And then a third. They talk briefly, heads bowed together, then they disband, each in a different direction. The Soldier moves with the one that seems to be giving orders.

These are not regulars of the city, seeing how the man he's following gets turned around once through the narrow streets. These are operatives, the Soldier surmises, from the way the man moves, the cut of his jacket concealing a holstered gun, the methodical manner in which he sweeps the area between the warehouses and the neighboring buildings. The suit is searching for something, or someone. The Soldier doesn't think it's a coincidence, that he's here at the same time, hunting for the assassin.

Perhaps this man in a suit is the assassin himself. The Captain only had one photograph of the target, of a man blurred in motion, the Soldier's own mask and goggles onto his face.

Like they belong there. The Soldier grimaces behind his mouth piece. He's worked hard to earn these as well.

He can't let the assassin take all he has away from him, Nemo, the privilege of wearing...

_You will learn to keep your mouth shut. Wipe him._

The sharp pain that runs under his skull makes the Soldier shake his head.

He's been idle for too long. Thinking too much leads to repeated resets and he doesn't like those.

Beneath, the man in the suit draws his weapon, fires twice, then takes off in pursuit of another. The Soldier runs ahead, trying to see who he's after, and catches a glimpse of someone shoving a small bundle into a crack of a wall. The figure turns the corner, and the Soldier can now see a man limping slightly as he slows his pace. Another shot comes from the suit, making him halt. The Soldier lays down on his front for a better look over the edge of the rooftop and into the alley that's deserted of passers by at this time. The suit is pointing his gun at the back of the other guy, that's standing there with his hands in the air.

The Soldier is too high up to hear what the suit is saying, but he has a few listening devices that he can use. He chooses the smallest one, aims carefully at a plant pot a story above the men. It's just dirt there, no plant, on the railing of a balcony adorning the side of the building across. He throws, making sure the movement stays hidden, then turns on his radio and ear piece.

"My name is Coulson," the suit is saying, "and I work for SHIELD, but I think you've figured that out already."

The other guy shakes his head with a laugh, still turned away from the suit and from the Soldier. He is in full tac gear, all black, vest and boots akin to the Soldier's own. Is this the impostor? A gunshot wound is bleeding sluggishly from his thigh, but the man is still standing, unwavering. Impressive. His hair is sandy, sticking up every which way, and the metal of the Soldier's fingers shines through the strands as Nemo caresses...

Another sharp jolt, and he has to screw his eyes shut against the pain.

Something is wrong. His targets shouldn't cause hallucinations.

But then... then, the man turns and the Soldier pulls a scope out of his pocket to take a better look. His face is uncovered, his eyes are a bright mix of gold-green-blue. The windows of the buildings around them shine orange for a brief moment, as the sun dips lower toward the horizon, slanting rays of light through the narrow space, and the world is on fire. Everything burns, while green-blue-gold eyes watch him as he fights for Nemo.

Watch him like no eyes have ever watched him. Like he wishes the Captain would, right before he closes his teeth around the rubber, but the glint in them is that of an owner, not a protector.

Pain burns again from the back of his neck to the middle of his forehead and the Soldier pulls his goggles off. His flesh hand is shaking, the tattoo heavy on his skin.

Something is wrong.

"Fine, you caught me," the man says, drawing Ne--the Soldier's attention and he lifts the scope to his eye. "Gotta say, I'm impressed."

"You're not an easy man to find," the suit returns.

"Then why go through all that trouble?"

The suit tips his chin, a bland smile settling on his lips, at odds with his threatening stance. "We want to offer you a job."

The blond snorts loudly. "No."

"You haven't heard our offer yet."

"Thanks, but I'm good," the man returns.

The suit, Coulson, relaxes, lowering his weapon. "You don't look good," he points at the wound on the guy's thigh.

"I've managed with worse."

"That's the thing," Coulson says as he holsters his gun and straightens his jacket. "You don't have to. We have resources."

The blond gapes at Coulson incredulously. "Are you serious? I'm a paid assassin," he waves both hands. "You want me to work for a government agency as what? A dirty little secret that takes out whichever politicians get in your way? No," he grits. "Thanks."

"We are aware you're a hitman, and a talented one at that," Coulson replies, unperturbed. He's starting to give the Soldier goosebumps. "But we don't want to use your talents for black ops. You can always refuse a mission if it doesn't align with your ethical orientation."

"Words. You're all the same, CIA, KGB, Red Room, SHIELD."

"I assure you--"

"Your assurances mean nothing. Just shoot me now and spare me the propaganda," the man spits with a grimace. "I'll never kill innocents for you."

Coulson watches him silently for a while and the Soldier can't stifle the swell of pride in his bones, that the assassin didn't cave, that he deems his work just as important as the Soldier sees his own. It brings back a sense of camaraderie that always comes from the missions where he's allowed to direct the strike team. He likes those more than the solo ones. This assassin might do well amongst his men. He can't be the impostor, can he? The impostor has been taking out the friends of the order that the world so direly needs, has been causing chaos and unrest.

"I know," Coulson finally says. "From what intel we could gather, all the jobs you've taken so far have involved figures of the underworld. At SHIELD, you are most famous for the opium magnate that's been funneling funds to a network of war criminals. Your actions have brought a lot of nazis to justice. You gave the families of a lot of survivors peace after half a century. To us, you are a hero."

The whisper of pride blooms into a full on approval that warms his chest and the Soldier scratches at his vest before pressing his fingertips over his pulse point on his neck. But his breathing and heart rate are normal. A frown settles on his forehead as he tries to understand why he's suddenly impressed by this assassin.

The man's shoulders slump as he sits heavily on the ground. "I'm not for sale."

"We don't want to buy you," Coulson tells him, "we want to hire you. Medical care, resources, a roof over your head, we'll give you anything you want."

"In return for killing people," the guy waves his hand.

"Yes," comes back immediately and the assassin snorts. "But you'll have the choice of refusing missions."

The man shakes his head, looking away. His wounded leg is bleeding on the concrete, much faster than before, and the Soldier estimates he won't last long unless he cares for it.

"Look," Coulson says, taking a couple of steps closer, "I know SHIELD has a reputation. But we're the good guys here. Maybe a little shady in some parts, yeah. However, we don't retire our agents with bullets, and we certainly don't take on assassinations based on the personal interests of our leaders. All intel into a target needs to be vetted by independent sources before a hit is ordered, and even then, our agents and assets have full access to the file before they agree to the mission."

The blond runs his fingers through the blood seeping into the fabric above the wound.

He should patch that up. He's thankfully passed out as the Soldier grips the wooden shaft of the arrow with his metal fingers. He pulls out gently, trying to make sure the tip doesn't break inside the wound. Blood follows, seeping into the kid's jeans, and the scope creaks under the strain of his hold.

Something... something is definitely wrong.

He can't know this man. No, he's... the Soldier can't know the boy.

"You're still very young," Coulson says.

_A last wish before going. I'll make sure it won't hurt._

"We can offer you safety. Tactical support. Training."

The boy shakes his head. The assassin does, too, his image pushing though the other one, but his sigh is defeated, instead of the sobs Nemo remembers.

"You can die here or continue the good work you're been doing."

_I can do it now if it's easier for you._

"Please," Nemo whispers, lips brushing the inside of his mouth piece.

And his eyes blur with relief when the boy nods. Accepts.

That sets Coulson into motion, as he removes his jacket, then bundles it up to press it on the wound. "I'm glad you made this choice," he says where he's crouched next to the boy. "What do you want me to call you?"

"Don't you already know who I am?"

"We know of Hawkeye and Clint Barton, but right now you can be anything you want. Think about it," Coulson says as he stands up. "I'll call for exfil. There's another operation around here, so we need to be out before they catch onto us."

The agent moves a few paces away, pulling out a radio, and then he's busy making plans and demanding medical intervention. Nemo shifts his attention back to the boy, watches him as he closes his eyes.

"Right through the fucking arrow scar," the boy mutters.

Nemo can't stop a smile at that. The mark left behind would have been healed over by now. The boy's face is not really the same anymore, but his eyes are unmistakable.

"I'm sorry, Nemo," the boy whispers, bloody fingers pushing his own sleeve up, "looks like I'll need to take a break. But I'll continue to make the world better, just like you're doing. Like you taught me. And I'll find you, I promise."

The boy bends over his forearm, pushing his nose against the skin there for a brief moment in a silent offering. Then, he looks up, gaze sharp in the scattering twilight, the twirls of a tattoo visible above his wrist.

_Nemo._

Of course. It's... air hurts as it travels down into Nemo's lungs. The boy is Nemo.

But the Soldier is Nemo.

And Nemo always does the good work meant to bring order and peace.

Is he supposed to kill himself? No, he's not allowed. He's tried, several times, but this behavior has been corrected. Then...

Then.

He needs to kill Nemo without killing Nemo. An impostor, for the impostor, of course.

Nemo checks his watch. It's only been six hours since he's been dropped off. His entire mission is scheduled for ten days, which means he still has over nine to bring his plan to fruition. He's watched the workers earlier, and he can already identify three men that are close in build and facial features to the boy. To his Nemo.

So he waits until Coulson's team arrives, follows them via rooftops until they're safely absconded on a boat that uses the cover of night to make its way toward one of the larger vessels anchored in the distance.

Nemo is safe. Time to kill an impostor, then. And he moves with purpose, a lot more focused than at the beginning. He feels...

He feels.

His own pulse. His breathing. The beating of his heart and a hummed song.

~

2014

He's beautiful, this boy that doesn't carry the face of a boy anymore. He's breathtaking, and James is entirely too pleased with his talent, his grace, his lack of waver.

"You're wonderful, Nemo," he rasps, the lump in his throat expanding from the fullness inside his chest.

Dawn stretches outside while Clint remains in James' embrace. He's fallen asleep shortly after James has taken a seat on the floor, and he's still amazed by how Clint trusts him.

He pushes his nose into Clint's hair, closes his eyes.

"You found me," he breathes. "You can rest."

~

2001

First thing he does is to check on the bundle the boy hid before Coulson caught up. The mouth piece and the goggles he finds inside just confirm what he knows, and he places the package back, covers it better with rocks and dust, pats the hole closed with his metal palm. The boy would want that back, he's sure.

The correction will be gruesome if he is found out disobeying, so Nemo needs to be extra careful, needs to pay attention to all the details. Luck has it that half an hour later he finds a guy stabbing another man a few blocks over. The stabber matches the boy's height and some of his features enough to make him pass.

So he grabs the man, takes him to one of the abandoned warehouses. He checks the man's body and there are no identifying markings on it, so all he needs is a haircut, a shave, and a tattoo.

The guy fights him, but Nemo assures him that his captivity won't last much longer, he just needs to be patient until the tattoo heals. He's quite satisfied with the job he's done, even though the guy kept squirming.

He lets the man run after the tattoo heals, watches him through the scope of the rifle for a while as he stumbles through a large open space of the shipping yard, the late hour making sure that nobody's around, the night guard too far away to be an issue. An innocent he isn't, after murdering another in cold blood for a couple of rubles and a watch. This way, he'll make himself useful.

So he squeezes the trigger, takes the impostor down.

The shot is loud, and it reverberates off of walls before it settles. From his calculations, the first person that might come by is still at least fourteen minutes away, so Nemo makes his way down. He approaches until the maximum distance possible and throws a grenade at the body, making sure that the subsequent explosion gets most of the head.

He retreats to a rooftop to call in the end of mission, and he watches the flames dancing against the darkness, the image of blue-gold-green eyes sparkling from forgotten memories.

Corrections will come and go. They will lie again about what he is. He will not remember this. He'll lose the boy again.

But one thing is clear.

Nemo is safe.

~

2014

Nemo is dear.

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you for reading so far. Your thoughts on it and the verse much appreciated! :)  
> Again many thanks to Catnip, Hraf, and Molly!


	8. Chapter 8

2014

James leafs through the files they've retrieved from the bank. It's strange, not having this dire need to return to base. Even after he'd pulled Steve from the river, while he was searching for shelter, he felt the consuming drive to go back there, to Pierce. To where he belonged. In spite of what Steve had said, in spite of Steve being the real Captain.

Clint thwarted this pull. The moment James saw his tattoo, his entire body relaxed so fast, that he had to fight with himself to keep his senses sharp and aware. He'd lost his guard when it comes to Clint, never to be raised again.

It took him a surprisingly short time to trust Clint.

And then he started remembering. Small flashes, here and there, interspersed between memories of Steve's scraped knuckles and his coughing fits.

This morning, after they've returned from their mission, he's held Clint tightly while remembrance poured in. Holding Clint while stabbing his skin with an ink dipped needle, holding the arm of a murderer about to die, holding the gun against Clint's forehead, and holding a knife to the Captain's throat, the same knife he'd tried to use on James' wrist. He's quite sure he doesn't have back everything he should related to Clint, something hidden still running deep in his bruised mind, but he has enough to know where he wants to belong.

Now he's here, next to Clint, while Natasha brings them steaming cups of tea. The midday sunlight sifts through the drapes of the living room window, drawing a bright pattern on the floor.

"Steve called," Natasha says as she takes a seat in the armchair to the side, a leg tucked underneath herself. She isn't looking at either of them, but blowing carefully into her mug. "He got released from the hospital this morning, went back to Wilson's place. He asked for intel on the Winter Soldier. They're meeting Fury later, so I talked to him, too. Coulson's alive."

Clint shoots to his feet, and James follows suit, scanning their surroundings for threats.

"That lying..." Clint says, waving his hand when words seem to fail him.

This person sounds important. But there are also no dangers around, and Natasha is looking at him knowingly, so James sits down, stifling a huff. She is too observant for her own good.

"Fury ordered him quiet," Natasha says. "Also, he's the new director of SHIELD."

Clint sighs and rubs his temple for a moment. "How's he doing?"

With half a shrug and a press of lips, Natasha looks away. "Fury said he's fine."

"You both care about him," James says. He hasn't meant to, not out loud, but given the way they both look at him, he isn't wrong.

Natasha leans back, while Clint starts pacing the room.

"He was our handler for a long time," she tells James. "He was our friend, and he died when--"

"He died because of me," Clint interrupts.

"Clint," Natasha says, like this is a worn out argument.

"I'm gonna take a shower," Clint mumbles and then he's gone upstairs before James can utter one word.

He turns to Natasha, only to be met with a face so blank, it's clear she's hiding whatever else she's thinking right now. So he doesn't ask for explanations. Maybe he will be given some, maybe he won't. But Clint hasn't asked either, letting James do whatever James wanted, and he'll respect Clint's needs.

"Did Steve heal all right?" he asks instead.

A beat, and Natasha draws air through her nose before her body loses its stiffness. "Yes, he's fine."

James nods. He shot Steve several times. To this day he doesn't understand why he didn't go for the headshot at the time, when he was still under the lingering effects of the correction, pain clutching at his skull. All because of that man, and he should've taken Steve out as swiftly as possible. Yet...

He's grateful he didn't.

"I think he plans on looking for you," Natasha continues. "He's too stubborn to give up."

That's true, and James glances at the sheets of paper spread out over the coffee table in front of him. He's been compiling a list of bases that he might have been held at with the intention of checking them out. If Steve's any bit resourceful, he'll find James sooner or later, and then walk himself into danger head on like the punk that he is. So he grabs one of the sleeves of a file, fills it with a few mostly redacted sheets on the Winter Soldier program, adds a couple of pictures as well. One of them is of his own face as he sits in the cryo chamber, and James runs his finger over the edge of the paper before snapping the file shut.

No more.

No more cold and obedience and pain.

"Here," he tells Natasha as he hands her the file. "Give him this, should keep him busy for a while."

She takes it, inspects its contents before nodding slowly. James had made sure to add a reference to a base in South America that's been marked destroyed in a more recent document, and an administrative bundle that lists tech purchases for a place on the west coast.

Meanwhile, his first target is somewhere in Austria, and James stifles a shiver at the thought of going back to those mountains.

"You're right," Natasha says after she examines, then closes the file herself.

She measures him for long moments, but James lets her look. They're both tied to Clint inextricably, which connects them in a way that's not easily dismissed.

"Why are you so quick to get rid of Steve?" she asks.

"For his own protection," James offers.

"Beside that, he might hold answers that you seek."

Yes, James has considered this, but he shakes his head. "He knows about a man named James Barnes. And while you might call me James, that man died a long time ago."

"Just like Clint," she murmurs.

James nods.

Natasha's eyebrows dip into a frown, and she leans forward.

"Two years ago, someone made Clint attack a SHIELD helicarrier. A lot of agents got hurt or died because of that. Coulson was one of them."

"Made," James repeats.

"A..." Natasha pauses, searching for a word, "mind wipe? That made him lose himself and obey the person who took control of him."

James has heard her, of course he did, but he can't quite believe it. Upstairs, the shower turns off and James looks at the ceiling.

No, Nemo isn't supposed to share this sort of...

"Go talk to him," Natasha's voice drifts over, too gentle.

It makes James feel raw.

~

1958

"Stop struggling, James," Ivchenko says. "You know it's useless. Let's try again. Listen to my voice."

_No, and no, and no!_

Bucky yells as he pulls one last time, and the binds give way for a change. He grabs Ivchenko by the throat, the metal of his fingers pushing into the softness there.

The blood that gushes out bubbles red, and someone is screaming in horror as James drops the body to the ground.

"I'm disappointed, James," Ivchenko's vile voice resounds through the space.

It hurts to hear it. The disapproval.

No. No... there isn't enough air, anywhere.

"All right, if you insist. I have prepared something very special for you."

Hands grab at him, and he fights them off, but sharp jolts to his sides bend him forward. He's dragged and strapped down, and...

Pain is carving into his temples.

For a very long time, there is just him, and pain, and the apple smiling kindly.

"Hello. Can you tell me who you are?"

Who... there's a metal hand with metal fingers and red flaking out on them, dulling their shine.

He's pretty sure he gets Ivchenko this time, as more blood gurgles out of an open wound of another throat.

A deep sigh travels through the air.

"Repeat the procedure."

~

2014

James stops in the doorway to the bedroom and Clint is already there, skin still wet as he rubs a towel over his hair. When he notices James, he pulls on a pair of sweatpants, then reaches for his tablet. It doesn't take long before a grimace flashes on his face, and Clint rolls his head around. He must have turned the aids back on, and James appreciates it.

But then Clint turns away to grab a t-shirt, and that's when James sees them. Criss cross all over Clint's back, fine and silvery and barely there, but unmistakable.

His own fingers shoot to his forehead.

"You missed your shot," James mumbles with the memory.

Clint stills from where he's been lifting the t-shirt over his head. A beat, and he lets his arms fall, the fabric bundled between his fingers. "Yeah?" he rasps.

"You said so," James replies and moves closer.

He runs his fingertip over one of the lines, until it disappears into Clint's skin.

"I don't have scars," James whispers. "Except around the shoulder. But there should be some on my temples, that's where it hurt the most."

Clint hangs his head, and James watches the curve of his spine.

"Natasha told you," Clint says.

"Only that something happened, and sent me here."

It makes Clint nod in understanding. "His name was Loki. I'll tell you more, but not right now."

"Ok," James breathes. It's yet another measure of how much Clint trusts him, and James' chest expands achingly. "Ivchenko, that was his name. He's the one to first put me in that chair."

Next to him, Clint buries his face in the t-shirt still hanging onto his hands. "I tried to find you sooner," comes muffled.

James presses his flesh palm onto the back of Clint's neck.

"I know," he admits. "I was there when Coulson recruited you."

That makes Clint turn sharply, eyes blue-gold-green wide and bright.

And James tells him everything he recalls of that day, from mission parameters to hiding Clint's mask in the crack of the wall. Clint had gone back for it a couple of months later, James finds out.

~

1938

Bucky kisses ma's cheek. Becca runs around the kitchen, skirt twirling around, and he doesn't imagine the glint of sadness in his mother's eyes, right beneath the gentle pride at the sight of her girl. Sickness took both Millie and Lisa, a long time ago. Becca's too young to remember them, but Bucky does and ma does and sometimes he wishes he could bring them back. Steve's ma's been sick, too, for a while now. He dreads seeing the same look on his friend's face.

"Can I help?" he asks, pointing at the pile of potatoes on the table.

Ma laughs. "You wanna cook now? You can't even boil water."

"Can," Bucky mumbles and snatches the knife before she can stop him.

He almost slices his palm open twice, almost loses three of his fingers, but the potatoes are nice and clean when he's done.

Bucky grins, Becca giggles, and ma smiles while she ruffles his hair.

~

2014

It takes him a while, but he finally manages to understand why he needs to cook. Why it calms his rushing thoughts. He learned from her.

Ma.

And he can't remember her entire face, just that smile she used to turn at him when he managed not to burn dinner.

"You're really good at this," Natasha says, mouth full of eggs, while James starts another pan of scrambled. She and Clint eat like they're starved.

"Best eggs ever," Clint adds. Well, it sounds more like 'ess egh ehv' but James has been starting to understand Clint's morningeese, as Natasha calls it.

James offers a grunt, not that it matters because they are engrossed in the food and James is anticipating their visit to the Smithsonian. Afterward, they're set to leave for a maintenance base up north where they can hopefully find a working quinjet. If not, they'll have to find alternate transportation to Austria. Natasha has met with Steve and Sam Wilson the day before, over Fury's empty grave of all things, has given him the file. Gear, weapons, and clothes are packed, ready to go. It's not a mission, it's a personal objective, and James has taken great pleasure in preping everything by himself, instead of being manhandled like a thing.

They leave through the other house, to avoid their sweet but nosy neighbors that are chatting outside on the sidewalk.

And then James finds himself staring at the largest photograph of Bucky Barnes possible. In the corner of his eyes, he can see Clint and Natasha quietly covering the exists, slinking between the other visitors as need be. James is safe and he relaxes, turning his full attention to the exhibits. He reads everything he can around the main room, and then he's moving into the ones dedicated to Barnes, Clint ahead and Natasha behind.

The man staring back from the photographs and movie reels is wearing his face, has inhabited his body before, and yet... James isn't him.

There's a little more information on the Barnes family here. Winnifred died a long time ago, thinking her son perished in the war. Well, she wasn't wrong, and James grimaces. But now he can picture her entire face in that old kitchen, smile pearly under the frizzy light bulb while he helped her cook.

Two of his sisters had been gone way before the war, and James frowns with the loss. He's been expecting to see them grown and happy, but instead there's just Rebecca in a faded photograph. The tag mentions she had two children, who aren't presented here to respect their privacy. He hopes she had a good life, at least.

He moves on, through every single one of the Commandos, bits and pieces of memories surfacing with the records of war. A joke here, a smelly shoe there, and that awful mustache that Dum Dum insisted to comb every two hours.

The section dedicated to Steve is the most extensive and includes bits about Peggy Carter as well. She's strong and smart and beautiful. James likes her instantly. Her presence in the flashes of remembrance he's getting while listening to her testimonies are not quite as fleshed out, but she's there, she's steering, her voice clear as if he's heard her yesterday.

A commander, that's what she was to them. Not Steve, not the Colonel, but her. Unassuming and underestimated.

James sneaks a peek to where Clint is perusing through newspaper articles pinned to a wall. From what Clint's told him of Coulson, he sounds a lot like Peggy. Depth hidden under shallow perceptions. On further consideration, Clint and Natasha employ the same strategy, and James admires them for it.

Then, there's Steven Grant Rogers.

And James stands there under the weight of memories returning to him. He keeps perfectly still, trying not to scream with the pain of the corrections that this name has brought him. That thinking of him has caused, over and over and...

Clint's warm fingers wrap around his wrist and James shudders, the sensations falling away until he's numb.

"We can go," he rasps.

"You sure?" Clint asks, raising his eyebrows.

Yes, James is, and he nods, pointing to a display to the side. "There's books," he adds.

He can read more somewhere else, where there are no bystanders, where it's just him and Clint and Natasha, where he'll be safe. They buy one of every book the Smithsonian's shop has to offer, and then they're on the road, making their way out of the city unhindered under the cover of night.

~

1927

"Hey, Stevie?"

"Ngh...?"

Bucky curls up tighter as he shifts closer. Mrs. Rogers is working at the hospital all night again, and Steve's sleeping at their place.

"What do you think we'll do when we grow up?"

With a small cough, Steve pokes his head out from under the blanket. He blinks before biting his lip.

"I wanna be big and healthy," Stevie whispers.

Bucky grins at him. "I wanna be Captain Nemo."

It earns him a laugh and a weak kick against his knee. "He's not real."

"I'll make him real," Bucky closes his eyes, the story of the submarine hugged tight against his chest.

Ma's gotten him the book on his birthday last week. It's new and shiny and he can't put it down. It's the best thing he's ever laid eyes on, even better than the cake Stevie's ma made for him last year.

~

2014

By noon they reach the maintenance base, a few miles off of a small town, make that very small town, surrounded by farms and orchards. The base is hidden inside and under a silo, and they stop on a hilltop overlooking the field it sits on. If James is paying attention, he can make out security cameras in nearby trees, a subtle shine to the wired fence around the property that betrays it as more than regular metal, while the poles that keep it up have sensors mounted on their bases.

"Looks like nobody's home," Clint says, surveying the place.

Natasha is using binoculars from where she's standing next to them. "Looks can be deceiving," she offers. "Security seems active."

"If we stumble onto SHIELD guys, let's not kill them," Clint mutters and Natasha agrees with a grunt.

"How will we tell them apart?" James asks.

Clint shrugs one shoulder. "Yell 'hail, HYDRA' at them and see who tries to shoot us."

"Wouldn't that be SHIELD guys shooting at us?" James raises an eyebrow.

A snicker comes from Natasha. "Let's just take prisoners and sort them out later."

"Fine," Clint returns.

They soon settle on an entry point as well, a vent shaft near the south fence, and they're on the move. Their incursion is unobstructed, the place quiet and deserted. The quinjet bay should be somewhere in the main silo hall, so they make their way toward it, following the narrow underground corridors.

They're approaching the bay doors when James hears it, a ruffle that would be construed as leaves shuffling in the wind, were they outside. He opens his mouth for a warning, but Clint's already standing in front of a barrel.

James moves, grabbing the shotgun by the nozzle, and uses it like a bat to send the guy at the other end flying backwards into the hangar.

And Clint... Clint laughs, full and with his body shaking, a finger pointed at the man that's sprawled onto the oil stained concrete.

Natasha shoulders her way past them to stand over the guy, arms crossed. Two more weapons cock over the sound of Clint's laughter, but she's unperturbed.

"You deserved that," she says.

"Sure," the man mutters and raises his head.

It's him, Coulson, and next to James, Clint's chuckles subside until he's wiping at his eyes.

"Stand down," Coulson tells his two agents as he lifts himself gingerly from the floor. The women follow the order, their shoulders relaxing as they take a step back.

"May." Natasha turns to the older one of the two.

"Romanov, Barton," she says, the corner of her mouth lifting in half a smirk. "I take it you're not with HYDRA."

"Nope," Clint replies, popping the 'p' while he stares at Coulson brushing himself off.

"This is Skye," May continues, pointing at her younger companion. James assesses them. May looks experienced, calculated, because she's sizing him up a lot like Natasha had. Skye seems still a novice. "And who is this?" May tips her chin at James.

That's when Coulson really looks at James, and he freezes there, eyes wide. "When Fury told me, I couldn't really believe it."

"Well, it's true," Clint shrugs.

"What's true?" Skye asks, gaze skittering between all of them, while May narrows her eyes.

"That Coulson died, came back to life, and didn't bother to call," Natasha says in a non-reply.

Coulson coughs in his fist awkwardly while Clint steps away, taking in the single quinjet in the large space.

"That thing can still fly?" he asks.

"We need it," Coulson returns.

So it's operational and apparently the other three are doing exactly the same thing here, looking for transportation.

"Eleven years, Phil," Clint counters, his back turned to the group. "I thought we were friends."

On James' other side, Skye is mouthing something in confusion to May, which causes May to shake her head. Natasha looks relaxed, but only to the untrained eye. Coulson wipes at the blood on his upper lip, then moves past Clint, toward a corner, and Clint follows. Natasha shifts closer to them as well, but without walking too far from James either.

As for James, he could listen in to the conversation if he concentrates, but he decides against it. From what Clint's told him, Coulson has been like a big brother at the beginning of his SHIELD career, then a close friend to both him and Natasha. And judging by the repentant look Coulson gives them, this is a talk he doesn't need to be a part of. May watches James, eyes sharp and finger still on the trigger, while Skye takes a wary step closer.

"So who are you?" the young woman asks.

"Danger," May replies for him.

James raises an eyebrow, then hands over the shotgun. Before he can say anything, though, Clint and Coulson return.

"We're letting them have it," Coulson tells May, dabbing a handkerchief under his hose. May frowns and Coulson waves his free hand. "We'll find another," he says, then turns toward James. "It's an honor."

James stares at his extended hand.

Coulson's treating him like a human being, and it's not that Clint and Natasha haven't done the same, but the assassins are different, like him. Coulson is cut of another cloth, a man who's protected his Nemo, a rule-abiding leader.

Wrapping his fingers around Coulson's hand feels like a strike through over all the times he hasn't been allowed to touch, talk back, disagree with the Captain. Not Steve, but Pierce.

James nods with the handshake, and Coulson's face brightens with a small smile.

"I'd ask how you got together with them," Coulson points over his shoulder where Clint and Natasha are engrossed in a conversation about SHIELD bases with May and Skye, "but I doubt you'll tell me."

With a glance Clint's way, James considers this.

"Clint likes to pick up strays," he offers.

Coulson smirks. "Did he tell you about this dog he used to have? Pizza-dog," he lifts his hand.

"Hey, Lucky and I had an understanding," Clint pads closer.

He wraps his hand around James' right wrist, body angled in such a way that May and Skye can't see from behind Coulson, and lifts the edge of James' sleeve just enough for the tattoo to peek out.

Coulson gasps, but thankfully it's not loud enough to draw attention. "How?" he mouths.

"Long story," Clint whispers. "You all need to keep quiet about meeting us," he adds.

With a look over his shoulder, Coulson mutters a quick "I'll try."

But Clint shakes his head and James' fingers twitch toward his holstered gun. "No try. Must. I won't hesitate, don't test me, friend or not," Clint hisses.

Coulson's eyebrows lift in surprise as he looks between James and Clint.

"That important, huh?" he breathes.

"More than anything," Clint returns.

It earns him a nod, filled with a lot more understanding that James expects. "This is who you've been looking for, all these years."

"You knew about that," Clint smiles and Coulson matches it.

"What are friends for, eh?"

"We have to move, there might be an unfriendly strike team coming through," May interrupts, waving a radio.

They drop off the three SHIELD agents, well two agents and a director, at their vehicles a couple of miles away, then retrieve their own gear and bags from their car.

As soon as they're over the Atlantic, Natasha retreats to a seat in the back, poking at a tablet, and James moves to the co-pilot chair.

He runs his metal thumb over the tattoo.

"Why'd you tell him?" he asks.

Silence follows for a few seconds, while Clint inhales and exhales slowly.

"He asked me once what my tat meant," he says. "I told him it was life. My destiny. I wanted him to see how much you mean to me."

A shiver passes through James, and he wraps his metal arm around himself. But it doesn't feel cold, on the contrary.

It's soothing. Painless.

~

1997

It's dark, the moonlight covering the emptiness of the highway with a soft veil.

It's dark, but the gold is still there. The green is bright and the blue is shaded.

It's dark, this sea of azure that shimmers beneath the glow of an yellow sun fading out.

And Nemo knows. He just knows, he can't pull the trigger.

It's abysmal, the fall of eyelids over the green and the blue and the gold.

In another life, he will be meant to exist without the pain.

And yet, he cannot spare the boy of it. No.

It's dark when Nemo embraces Nemo for the second time.

Just as it was light when Nemo came to be, wrapped around it.

Around hope.

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone o/  
> Thank you again for reading. The plot thickens, eh? Well, bit by bit. Small bits. :)  
> Let me know what you think. Again, many thanks to Molly and Hraf and all those who've been kind enough to listen to me whine about the fic.  
> Have a wonderful weekend!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!  
> Thank you for the patience. Also thanks to Molly for the beta :)  
> The plot finally thickens, hah! *runs for cover*  
> Have a nice day there!

2014

The sky is blue, bright save for a light sprinkle of white clouds in the distance. Around them, the peaks of the Alps fade out into the sunlight. Below, the mountain side stretches, blanketed by green treetops. In spots, stone pierces through the forest, dark gray, white streaked, rough edged. James inhales deeply from where he's watching, a platform at the edge of one of those rocks overlooking a narrow valley with a thin flow of water rushing at the bottom.

It will be seventy years in a few months. Seventy years since he died.

James swallows, the motion nauseating.

It wasn't here, this particular valley, but it was this place nonetheless. He remembers the peaks and the way the wind swirled, fresh with life. He remembers Steve's smile and the stupid Cyclone, how sick he had been after that ride, but how badly he'd managed to hold it in just so he can make sure Stevie makes it home safe.

Bucky Barnes never made it home.

And James stares at his grave.

A shadow catches the corner of his eye as Clint stops next to him.

"I'll never have what he wants," James rasps. "His friend."

Clint doesn't answer. Instead, he sits on the ground, elbows on his knees, and James watches him watch the mountains.

"This is where it all started, isn't it?" Natasha's voice drifts over from his other side.

"Over there," James points to the north.

"I thought Zola's train went that way," Clint starts, hand outstretched sideways, but James shakes his head.

"No, it started when he experimented on me. Before Steve got us out."

"What exactly did he do to you?" Natasha asks.

"I don't know," James grits, a lot more bitterly than he'd intended.

"Let's go find out then," Clint returns, sitting up. "You got the coordinates?"

"Yes," Natasha replies. "Entrance should be right below us, toward the base of the slope, but there's nowhere to park the quinjet. We need to rappel and then continue on foot."

"All right, take point," Clint nods.

They all turn to gear up, full combat, no need for being inconspicuous here. Better be fully protected if they run into a heavy HYDRA presence.

What they find is signs of fighting, a few bodies riddled with gun wounds. They're already cold, must have been dead for about two days, Natasha reckons. The entire facility looks like it's been raided, a few rooms baring marks of explosions, documents burned in filing cabinets. There is nothing left.

"Someone's been here," Clint comments as he pokes with his boot at a dismantled chair, much like the one in that vault back in DC.

James' upper lip twitches without his input, and that makes Clint wrap his fingers around his wrist. It abates the disgust that's crawling up his throat at the sight.

No more, he tells himself again. No more.

Natasha hangs up the phone before pocketing it. "It wasn't Fury," she says.

"Ok," Clint returns, "we've got some bogies, either ahead or on our tails. Either someone HYDRA pissed off, or some part of HYDRA cleaning up after themselves."

"Could be Red Room," Natasha adds, "they're not below profiting from this."

Clint nods and James takes a step closer to him.

"We gotta be careful," Clint says. "All right, next on the list was that place outside of Minsk, but there are still three locations west of here in the mountains, one in Hungary, and another in Poland. These were all marked decommissioned, but now one of them might be hub of operations for our new friends," he waves at the room with his free hand. "And I'd like to have a fly by that place where Zola held you," he tells James.

It's not an order. Would be easier if it were, perhaps.

"You don't have to decide right now," Natasha's voice drifts to him and James shudders. Sometimes it feels like they see right through him, like they read his mind, and it's reassuring instead of exposing. "But I agree with Clint, we should check all these out before moving east."

James nods. There is logic in that.

As soon as they're in the quinjet, he huddles on the floor, against Nemo's legs, and Nemo lets him. Even pats his hair.

"When Zola held me," James rasps, "I saw something. I saw you and the blue of the Tesseract. It made your eyes change color."

The hand in his hair stills, but tremors are traveling through it all the way to where Clint's fingertips press onto James' skull.

"For a while I thought it were just memories crashing together, but I remember it clearly, the entire hallucination. It happened several times while I was on Zola's table."

A soft shuffle comes from the cockpit, and James sees Natasha leaning into the partitioning wall there, arms crossed, watching them. James swallows.

"It starts with a blue sea, there's a yellow sun over it. The colors are too sharp to be natural and everything hurts, like my mind's going one way and my body another. Then, the world turns into the colors your irises have," James looks up then, to make sure those eyes are still there. Clint watches him, perfectly still. "Seven decades ago I saw your face and it kept me alive. There's a sequence of flashes that follow, some of those already happened, like when you called me Nemo and told me I was safe, back in the living room. Some other people in them I haven't met yet."

"How is this possible?" Natasha breathes.

James shakes his head. "I don't know."

"The Tesseract opens portals through space, right?" Clint says, his hand moving again, clutching at James' shoulder, and James shifts closer, leans more heavily onto Clint's legs. "Maybe the other stone opens portals through time."

"Other stone?" James asks.

"The-the..." With an inhale that's too rugged, Clint waves.

James catches his hand, cups it between both his palms.

"The scepter had another stone," Natasha adds.

It's then that Clint bends himself, rests his forehead on the top of James' head. He tells James of Loki, of the scepter he was carrying, of the stone mounted on it. And when Clint loses his voice, Natasha takes over. The Chitauri invasion, how the Avengers came to be.

James learns it all.

How one touch of that scepter took Clint's will away. Loki told Clint "You have heart" and James confirms this happening in the hallucination. The stone of the scepter was blue, like the Tesseract, so maybe the two are connected.

Maybe whatever Zola did to James involved the Tesseract somehow. Maybe, in that place in time when James was being tortured, Clint was being touched by the scepter. Maybe James saw a glimpse of the future.

One thing is certain, they need to find out what happened in Zola's lab and they need to know what the stone of the scepter is.

Natasha contacts Fury again. The scepter had been taken to a SHIELD facility known as the Vault after the Chitauri battle for storage and study. That one is back in the states, and Fury was already on his way there, it seems. The Vault keeps a lot of dangerous items, and after the reveal of HYDRA, contact with it has been lost, which is worrisome on several levels.

James bites his lip. This entire thing is making him nervous, like the worst of the hallucination has not yet passed. He doesn't tell Clint of the blood, not yet. Perhaps they won't get there.

But the apprehension still lingers, and James tugs at Clint's arm until Clint slides down next to him. There's this dire need to hold onto him running through James, has been there for a while now.

James can't explain it, but he's relieved Clint allows it.

~

1943

Bucky watches the camp as he sits outside their tent. It's peaceful tonight, no gunshots in the distance, no mortars shaking the ground. Behind him, the commandos and Steve are sleeping in their cots. They've had a couple of gruesome days. Bucky almost lost his arm in an explosion, Steve got shot in the shoulder, and Dum Dum singed his mustache.

But most of all, the thing that shook him to his core, was when he looked at the skin of his hand and saw it healed, mere hours after that grenade went off.

With a swallow against the lump in his throat, Bucky pulls at his sleeve, high around his elbow, then draws his knife.

He must have imagined it. So it's time to test it.

First, he pricks the pad of a finger, sucks the blood off, and the skin comes out untouched. That means nothing, though. He's had bigger splinters than this.

Next then, he carefully nicks a bit of skin up his forearm.

He doesn't get to do much than that, because his hands are shaking too widely to even hold on to the knife anymore, as he watches the tiny cut heal before his eyes.

And that's when he notices.

Everything around him.

The sky is dark, thick with the heavy clouds that announce snow soon, no stars or moon visible. Yet he can see the entire camp, clear as day.

Two tents over a guy is crying in his sleep, up the hill someone's taking a piss, and behind him Steve is turning, wrapped up in his blanket.

How can he even know it's Steve and not Morita?

What the hell did Zola did to him?

Bucky struggles to breathe, under the plethora of sensations piling over him, the smell of blood, wet earth, winter in the air.

He's a fucking soldier, just like Steve, who can see better, hear better, run faster, even needs less sleep now. Zola changed him and Bucky trembles, wondering what he'll become, if he'll stay human, like Steve, or turn into a monster, like Schmidt.

Only.

Only... he's not human anymore, is he...

~

2014

They start at the westmost location, near the border between Austria and Switzerland. What they find is a caved in underground bunker from WWII that one of the locals they ask says has been like that since he can remember. Next, they move into Italy, at the edge of a national park. The coordinates where the base is supposed to be are dead smack in the middle of a resort crawling with tourists. There's even a guided tour that takes them through a series of underground tunnels, remnants of the war. Unsuccessful again, they move further east toward the third location.

By the time they reach Graz at dawn, it's raining heavily and they decide to rent a room for the day, before checking out their target under the cover of night. Being in the quinjet for so many days on end is starting to take a toll on them. So they find a hotel at the edge of the city that's shady enough for no one to ask too many questions.

The water is hot, though, and James likes how it feels on his skin. It's a lot different than the ice cold showers he recalls from before and after missions. It's still all flashes here and there, a backhand and a laugh, a barked order and a bland meal. Pain, so much pain. But he's slowly putting pieces together. It's not enough, though, to steer them in the right direction in their search, or to give him the answers he needs.

Clint takes his place in the bathroom when he's done, and James is left there standing. There's only one bed in the room, currently occupied by Natasha as she flicks through the channels on the television in the corner. A beat, and she pats the bed with a raised eyebrow. It drives a huff out of James before he sits next to her against the headboard. He can never tell with her. So far he hasn't seen her touch anyone but Clint, the only exception that handshake with James. It's curious. James is curious. Huh.

He watches the shifting images on the screen for a while, blowing away the strands that fall over his eyes. The hair dryer messed it all up, making it stand askew in all directions and James grumbles low in his throat. A snicker comes from his side.

He glares.

However, her smirk is not mocking.

"Here," and she hands him a round piece of black elastic.

But when James stares at it, she digs out another one from her pocket.

"Look," she says, twisting away from James.

She grabs her hair, snaps the band around it... oh. Ok. He repeats the motions, thankfully avoiding catching hairs between the metal plates of his left hand. Now, that's better.

"Thanks," he says.

"Welcome," Natasha returns, leaning back and clicking on the remote. "Hah," comes from her just as Clint walks out of the bathroom, "look what I found!"

She's grinning at an animation of an orange fish on the screen and Clint whines when he takes a peek.

"Naww."

"Come on, it's perfect," Natasha says.

"What is this?" James asks.

"Finding Nemo," Clint sighs, rubbing his fingers through his hair until it's all standing.

"It's a cartoon about a fish named Nemo," Natasha explains while Clint pokes at his tablet.

James watches him from the corner of his eye as he goes through the motions of turning off his hearing devices while Natasha tells him what they've missed of the plot so far. He's gotta say, it's pretty funny, considering who they are.

Just then, Clint looks at him, eyes wide, fingers hovering over the touchscreen.

"What," James grumbles.

Clint shrugs, then moves his attention back to his tablet.

"You're laughing," Natasha whispers next to him.

Huh.

It... it feels good.

The bed is too small for three people, but Clint stretches out with his body in the space between James' legs and his head on Natasha's thigh. It's not wise, would be difficult to untangle should they be attacked, but despite that, it augments the sense of belonging in him. So he lets it slide, making sure his handgun is loaded and ready in his left hand.

He watches the orange fish, watches the door, and watches them fall asleep, Natasha sitting against the headboard with her hand in Clint's hair.

Over a blue sea, the yellow sun shines, glinting in gold-green off the surface of the water.

~

1943

With one last push against the floor, Bucky raises to his feet. His arms are burning pleasantly, his skin hot with the exercise. Ever since he realized how different he is, he's been finding the exertion incredibly soothing, especially when it comes to burning off all that energy thrumming inside of him. As long as they're on mission, he's good, but make him sit put for two days and he's starting to itch. Kinda gets it now why Steve's running around the base at all hours like he's got something to prove.

Right now they're in London, it's raining, and they have about a week down time while waiting for a couple of spies to return with information on Schmidt's movements through Europe. Aside from being cooped up underground for most of the time, it's a nice change. There's hot food, clean water, an actual bed. Bucky's even the luckier ones who got a room to himself. Eh, room's too big a word. Shoe box more like, barely space enough for a bed and a metal cabinet doubling as a dresser in there.

His door opens while he's wiping a wet cloth over his arms and Peggy rushes in still looking out the door as she closes it. Bucky raises an eyebrow at her when she finally turns around.

But all she says is "Barnes," before she shucks her shoes off and flops onto the bed.

Bucky blinks. Repeatedly.

"You'll hurt yourself thinking too hard," Peggy mumbles from where her face is mushed against the pillow.

"Yes, save me from myself and explain," Bucky throws.

It earns him a chuckle as Peggy rolls herself around.

"I'm hiding from a senator, a general, and two reporters," she says.

Bucky's both eyebrows shoot up his forehead this time.

"Oh, don't give me that look," she waves, "Steve is always hiding in your room."

Right. But if she's here, that means... "You threw him to the wolves, didn't you?" and he can't help the laughter. Serves the punk right from always slipping off of meetings with demanding politicians.

Peggy looks entirely too smug about it. Bucky approves.

"Well, then, make yourself at home, but scoot over," he tells her before he nudges at her foot with his.

She does comply, curling herself as tight as possible, which gives Bucky just enough room to sit against the wall at the foot at the bed.

The minutes pass in silence while Bucky finishes his overdue reports, starts a letter to ma and Becka. Peggy's fallen asleep somewhere during that and Bucky tries not to scrape with the pencil too hard against the paper. Peggy's been running around more than the boys have, she deserves a quiet rest from time to time.

Just then, a gasp pulls his attention. Peggy twitches in her sleep, eyes moving rapidly behind her closed eyelids, her breaths sharper and faster.

A nightmare.

He's been having those about two a day. With a sigh, he wraps his fingers around her ankle, brushes the bone there with his thumb in hopes of pulling her mind from the terror. It works, it seems, when she relaxes after a while and Bucky smiles to himself before returning to his letter.

It's late when he decides to go in search for dinner, getting there just as the mess is about to close. He does appease his hunger, but figures Peggy won't get any food tonight, so he slinks off with the contraband of a loaf of bread, two slices of cheese, and half a bottle of scotch.

Peggy's still there when he returns, just waking up with a grumble.

They end up drinking straight from the bottle well into the evening, swapping stories of childhood and bemoaning the stubbornness that plagues Steve.

She's one hell of a woman. Punk doesn't know how lucky he is.

"I have to tell you, James, you punch like a man."

"And that's bad?" he returns.

"It is when you're trying to teach someone half your size to fight fair. There's no fair in being half size," she gesture with the knife before expertly cutting a bit of the cheese into a perfect square.

Huh. Well, she does have a point.

"So I take it you showed Steve how to sock a guy hard enough to fall on his ass?"

The smile she turns at him is as beautiful as it is ominous.

Bucky tuts at her with a head shake.

"You don't believe me," she says.

"Won't work if the guy's too big."

"All right then," she wipes her hands on her skirt, then stands. "I'll show you."

"What, now?" But Bucky's already getting up himself, curious about it. Steve has indeed become a better fighter, and none of it's been Bucky's doing. Bucky's never been much of one himself anyway.

She extends her left hand quickly, jabbing Bucky in the side, surprising him into bending, then she brings her other hand down on his shoulder. It happens so fast that Bucky loses balance and falls to the floor.

"Wow, lady," he says, entirely too impressed. If she would've used her fist on his face instead, she's have done some serious damage.

She crosses her arms, chin up and smirk firmly set on her face.

"I want you to be my best fella instead," he grins at her, before he hugs her legs.

It gets him a toe in the nose, but they laugh about that for a whole hour afterwards.

When Steve finally show up around midnight, looking ragged and worn after spending the day with a senator, a general, and two reporters, they receive him with too much mirth.

Steve mopes. He honestly mopes.

Not because they're getting along, but because he can't get drunk anymore.

Bucky doesn't tell him he can't either.

The morning finds the two of them huddled against the wall on the too small bed, Peggy asleep as she lays across their laps.

"I like her," Bucky whispers.

Next to him, Steve nods with a sigh, then carefully slides himself low enough that he can rest his head on Bucky's shoulder. Bucky's missed his friend, in this chaos of war. Now it looks like he's made another one, too, and it makes him smile.

Between this and the boys, between missions and exercise, he thinks he can keep the thoughts at bay.

About a man, bloodied and pained, screaming at the verge of death, begging "James, James, please, James..."

~

2014

"This brings back memories," Natasha says as they survey the Budapest skyline from their perch on a high roof at the outskirts of the city.

All they found in Graz was another museum, so they moved further east. Next, it's either Zola's camp near Klagenfurt or Minsk. The place outside of Warsaw is being excavated for the construction of some new theme park, they've checked online. James shivers. He doesn't really want to go back to that camp, but they'll have to. In the meantime, he forces himself to focus on their current target.

"This is where I caught Nat," Clint says.

"Where I let you," she corrects.

"Please."

Something pulls at his mouth and James lets it. He runs his fingers over the shape of his lips. It's a smile. It feels just as foreign as the laugh the other day, but it's his, and he welcomes it.

~

1937

"Ya gotta smile more," Bucky says with a ruffle to Steve's hair.

It gets his hand batted away with a glare.

"Like this, see," Bucky continues, settling down on the sofa cross legged, before he pulls at the corners of his mouth as wide as he can. It looks funny, he checked in the mirror, but Steve's not buying it today.

"Won't work, Buck," comes back with a mumble. Steve's not even looking at him anymore, but picking at the seam of the cushion beneath his bony legs.

"There will be others," Bucky tries.

Steve doesn't answer this time. His sadness pangs in Bucky's chest and he wishes he could do something. But there's nothing. All he's got are jokes and smirks and a talent to make girls smile.

"Don't worry," Bucky adds, squeezing Steve's shoulder, "ma said she'll kiss you if you scrub the floors."

Steve pushes his hand away, but he can't hide the smile before Bucky sees it and Bucky wraps his arm around Steve's neck, rubs his knuckles over the top of his head, causing uncoordinated flailing from his friend.

"Jerk," Steve shouts, then jabs all the fingers he can in Bucky's ribs.

Bucky lets out an undignified squeal, higher than one of those sopranos on the wireless, but it makes Steve laugh, full and shaking with his entire body. Bucky's pleased. And yeah, it was kinda funny. Only kinda. All right, all right, a lot.

~

2014

There is something warming about the way Clint looks at James, the slow breeze over the city shifting around them with the dusk.

"That looks good on you," he says, pointing at James' face.

It's warming indeed, heating his cheeks, and James turns his head toward the coolness of the air. Silence stretches around them for too long, so James looks back at his companions. Clint glaring at Natasha who stares at Clint right back, arms crossed and an eyebrow raised.

Peculiar.

He surveys their surroundings swiftly, there's no threat. So it must be something that doesn't concern him.

"When do w--"

He hears it more than sees it, a high velocity round that speeds through the air with a sharp whistle. James shifts, takes hold of Natasha and pivots them both on a heel.

His breath is knocked out of his chest when the bullet passes through his side. He grabs his gun, but it slips through his fingers.

His own fingers are slipping through his fingers.

Where...

Clint. There's blood on Clint.

~


	10. Chapter 10

2014

"No, no, no, keep your eyes open. James."

Something hurts.

"James, please."

Pain, there's pain.

"James! Look at me!"

Clint. And blood. Everywhere.

"That's it, keep looking at me, I'm right here."

James tries to move, to touch, make sure he really is, but something pierces through his middle and the familiar taste of metal runs bubbling out of his mouth.

"Don't move, just..."

Everything's so heavy.

"Hey hey hey! Eyes on me! Stay awake!"

Awake. He's awake. Prep him. No, no, the pain is wrong.

"James, you got hit. Look at me," and he looks, at the blood, at the pain in gold-green-blue.

He got hit, not Clint. And that thing from before pulls at his lips.

"Where are we going?" Clint asks.

How would James know...

"Pepper said Tony's in Switzerland at an energy summit when I spoke to her the other day. He always has a medical team with him these days."

Natasha. She's alive. Where is the sky?

"Nat--"

"He owes me, he'll keep quiet."

"What about the staff?"

"Trust me, Tony'll sue them and their grandmothers if they break their confidentiality contracts."

"All right, call him."

"How is he?"

"Losing blood fast, bastard's grinning at me. What's so funny, eh?"

James finally manages to shift enough so that his fingers are scrambling at Clint's sleeve, through the wetness there. Clint's hands don't move, though. Instead, pain radiates through his middle again.

"How about we hold hands later? Right now I gotta keep your insides inside."

Ins... the blood. Keep the blood. The metal of his other limb is lying inert next to him, but he forces it up, and over the pain, on top of Clint's fingers, to press, press, press... until it gets darker and darker.

"Eyes on me, Nemo, stay awake."

Awake. He can't, can't... but he tries, for Clint. He pushes at his mind until it stills, forces his eyes to focus.

The quinjet. They're in the quinjet.

Clint's eyes are wide, pupils blown, the ring of blue-gold-green thin around the edges.

Natasha speaks softly somewhere, bits of words drifting through, until her voice resonates again around them.

"He's got a place outside the city, we won't even be seen landing."

"That's good," Clint says, but his eyes never leave him.

They never look away.

~

1988

They never look at him. Not when they scrub him down, not when they prep him, not when they clothe and arm him.

He tells one of them once, please and help and kill me. He tells again, to another, and another... until, one day, one of them raises his eyes just as he fits the rubber between his teeth.

"I'm sorry," he says, "but I've got to do this. Got to protect my family. But you'll survive, I've seen you go through it--"

Blood splatters his face.

There are eyes on him, not looking away this time.

Lifeless and cold.

Just like him.

~

2014

Zola comes at him again and he lashes out.

"James. You're safe here, let them look."

Clint.

"That's right, I'm here. I have to stay with him."

"Ok, fine, get him a--"

There's light, too bright against his eyes, and he tries to push it away. But Clint's fingers wrap around his wrists, pinning them over his collarbones.

"Let them do their job, keep your eyes on me."

Something hurts again, but then the pain dissipates, little by little, with each soft word Clint tells him, with each swipe of his thumbs over James' wrists.

There are voices, then hands touching him, but Nemo is here, and he trusts Nemo.

"Time to take a nap, yeah? I'll be here when you wake."

He'll be here.

~

1940

Bucky does what Mrs. Rogers taught him, rest her soul. He gathers snow from the window sill, mixes it in with the already lukewarm water in the pan, fingers red and shaking. Then he goes back to where Steve is sweating, delirious with fever. This is the worst he's ever seen in his life, and fear grips tightly around his ribs.

"Steve, Stevie," he calls, "time for some water. Up you go."

It's really hard to make him drink, because Steve's not helping. His eyes are unfocused and glazed as he shivers uncontrollably.

Bucky lays him down and wipes at his upper lip, where a drop of blood still lingers from the coughing fit Steve went through earlier that evening.

"I have to go," Steve croaks.

When the meaning of the words dawns on him, Bucky bites the inside of his cheek as hard as he can to keep himself from screaming. "Go where, punk?"

"Ma's calling..."

"No, she isn't," Bucky counters, sitting on the edge of the bed, clutching at Steve's hand.

Steve blinks at him then, really looks at him, sees him there.

"Don't cry, Buck. Just gonna sleep a bit, 's all."

"I'll be here," he gasps. "I'll be here when you wake up. And... and we'll have toast. And... and I'll get some milk."

"Coffee," Steve breaths, eyes falling closed.

"And coffee..."

Time stops when Steve's eyelashes still. All Bucky can do is lean his head on his chest, keep listening to that heartbeat, keep getting snow, keep talking.

In the morning, he's there, but so is Steve.

And Bucky can't stop trembling.

~

2014

Awareness comes to him in waves. First the soft sounds of someone breathing, steadily in slumber. Then, something warm against the back of his flesh hand, something soft underneath the metal of the other. He's lying on a mattress, pinned down by heavy numbness interspersed with sharp jolts of pain in his side.

James searches his mind for an explanation. Ah, he was shot by an armor piercing round. He heard it, then saw it move toward Natasha, so he got her out of the way. Yet, the bullet hit him.

There was so much blood.

Clint.

Now it makes sense. The vision of Clint, screaming at James, his face streaked with red.

A huff travels up his throat, relief that it wasn't Clint the one hurt.

The warmth against his right hand shifts and James blinks. The room is mostly dark, save for a soft light coming off a lamp near the bed. There's an IV line running into his arm, and James twitches at its sight, IVs are never... they're nothing good...

"Wait, wait, leave that there," comes in a rasp, drawing James' attention.

The circumstances have changed. Medication won't lead to memory loss anymore, he tells himself while he focuses on Clint's face. So he moves his left hand from the needle to his middle, trying to feel up the extent of the damage.

"Shouldn't be doing that either," Clint grumbles, nudging James' hand away.

There should be... there's something he must do. Something sitting on the tip of his tongue... words! But they don't form, none come out of his mouth.

"Wow, you're really out of it. Go back to sleep," and fingers spread the warmth against his forehead.

~

1962

Something screams. Grating and raw. Poor thing.

Something screams and only hours later does he realize it's coming out of his own throat.

"Dose him again and put another one in. Don't forget the timer, I want to know how long until he goes into cardiac arrest."

"Yes, Doctor."

A needle slides into his arm, where it already aches, dull like a bruise.

But then.

Then... a metal rod comes down on his belly, piercing through to the other side.

The pain of the stab reverberates through to the rest of the places that are centers of hurt. He loses count at five, and something screams. Raw and grating.

~

2014

James inhales slowly, flush with lingering memories. The room is still, brighter against his closed eyelids, but for a quiet conversation in the corner.

A man and Natasha.

His hand is cold and James pries his eyes half open. Clint is not there anymore, but a careful listen to his surroundings tells him Clint's in the bathroom that's behind the door left ajar on his left. So James shifts his attention to the other two. They haven't noticed he's awake yet.

"How's the shoulder?" the man asks. He's neither tall, nor short, not wide and not slender either, but in between. His hair is dark, muscles visible under his t-shirt where he stands with his back to James. His arms are hugged around himself as he talks to Natasha.

"Only a little stiff right now," she replies, rolling her left shoulder. "Dr. Cho's machine does wonders."

"Yeah, I can bring her in to help," the man throws his thumb over his shoulder. "She's been begging me for a while to get a sample of Steve's tissue to study its regenerative properties."

"Yeah, see," Natasha shakes her head, "that's what we want to avoid."

"But--"

"I said no, Tony."

"Is that why you're refusing more medical help with him? Patch him up and that's it? What if there's an infection?"

"Nobody can know he's here. Who he is. What he is. Look at what this sort of research did to Bruce. None of us want to end up lab rats."

The man sighs, shoulders slumping.

"I know, I just... I can't believe it's really him. Dad used to talk about them so much," he says. "So what now? You're gonna leave?"

"That's the plan," Clint says from the doorway to the bathroom.

"I can't just let you--"

"Look, Stark, not that we're not grateful, but this is not your bu--"

"Fuck off, birdbrain. The hell it isn't. I was there at the end of that scepter, remember? Only I got lucky 'cos I'm already damaged goods," and he pokes himself in the chest.

Clint presses his lips together, crossing his arms, and smacks his head into the doorframe behind him with a thump.

"You can't do this alone," the man, Tony Stark, says. "Let us help."

Stark. Stark... ah. Could it be?

"Any relation to Howard?" James rasps.

The other three turn to him, then, and Clint rushes over.

"Morning," he says as he stops near the bed, the small smile on his lips darkened by the circles around his eyes. "How are you feeling?"

James takes a moment to check himself.

Torn. There's pain, but nothing he can't handle. There's still a gaping wound in his side, he can feel it under the bandages, and an itch as the tissue mends itself. It's incredibly slow, the damage extensive.

"Better," he offers.

Clint doesn't look like he believes James, but doesn't contradict him either. Instead, he helps James sit up, placing another pillow behind his back. Natasha tips her chin at him as she hands him a bottle of water with a straw in it, and even though her body appears to be loose, she's rigid where she stands. For some reason it feels like James is in trouble. Not 'wipe him and start over' trouble, but smack against the back of the head 'ma's gonna kill you' trouble.

"I'm Tony," the other man says, hands in his pockets. "Howard was my father."

That's right, Natasha's told James about Tony. IronMan. An image of a flying car and a snarky grin flash with a memory, while James drinks slowly. His throat aches. Looking at this man who is Howard's son really puts into perspective how much time has passed.

"You're old," James says, then rests the bottle against his thigh, balanced inside his metal palm.

"Look who's talking," comes back while Tony crosses his arms.

Tony is not old, but looks older than James himself for the kid of a friend.

"Insults aside," Clint says, "Tony lent us his med team to fix you up a bit. You could've..." but the worlds trail off into silence.

James gets it. He could've. So he reaches over, grips at Clint's fingers with his flesh ones.

"Thank you, Tony," James says.

It earns him a surprised raise of eyebrows, as if the he hasn't been expecting it, before Tony unwinds his body, takes a few steps closer with a hum that might be a mumbled "you're welcome."

And then, "You know how you could thank me? Convince these idiots to accept help. And let me take a look under your hood," he points a finger at James' left arm.

Clint rolls his eyes and sits heavily on the edge of the mattress, his back at Tony but James' hand cradled between his own.

"He's not a car," Natasha grits, tone a little too sharp, before she takes one of the armchairs to James' left, behind Tony.

"He can look under my hood any time he wants," comes back.

But then both Clint and Natasha respond with "Tony," clear warning in their voices, and Tony raises both hands in the air. Huh.

"Fine, no jokes around the braincicle."

Clint groans. James tilts his head. Something must elude him. Sometimes Howard used to be like that, talk and talk and rarely make sense.

"You're just like him," James comments. The information at the Smithsonian said Howard Stark died quite a while ago. It's a shame. "Your father," he adds when Tony raises an eyebrow at him.

A few things flash over Tony's face at the same time, too fast for James to recognize, before Tony speaks again.

"So, the scepter. I think you should bring Cap in. I mean look what happened when you got close."

"As I said--" Clint starts, but there is information missing from this entire conversation.

"What happened after I got hit?" James interrupts.

"There was a sniper a few roofs over," Natasha supplies, "Clint took him out before we dragged you into the quinjet. We got out of there as fast as we could. Looks like we were onto something."

"And got shot for your troubles," Tony waves. "You need back up."

"We need stealth," Clint turns then. "And we all know neither you, nor Steve are inconspicuous."

"Which is why we can draw attention to us while you master assassins sneak in and do your thing."

That is not a bad idea.

"We have two fronts to cover anyway," Tony continues.

"Two fronts," James repeats.

"See, now you know how it feels to be left out," Tony mutters while Natasha grits a "We're been over this."

"Fury called while you were out," Clint says, "looks like the scepter is gone from the Vault. We need to find it, and we need to find whoever's been in that base destroying evidence."

"The working hypothesis is that they might be the same people," Tony adds as he paces around the bed.

"Your working theory," Clint returns.

Tony huffs with a wave. "Let me assemble the Avengers and we can do this properly. 'sides, Thor might know what the stone is."

Thor, the god of thunder, according to Natasha. James snorts at that.

"Don't mock, he might hear you," Tony points a finger at James.

"Actually, it's not a bad idea to ask him about that. His people know about the Tesseract, they might know more," Clint tells James with a raise of his eyebrows.

So they haven't shared the information about the hallucinations with Tony. James finds himself relaxing more against the pillows and Clint squeezes his fingers like he understands. James is grateful.

"And once we know that, Bruce can help track it. We still have the data from last time, we might be able to isolate a signature or something," Tony continues, hands gesturing as he speaks.

This sounds like a good, plausible plan. Except.

"I don't want to see him yet," James whispers, low enough that only Clint can hear.

As expected, Clint nods at that, while Tony goes on about the benefits of teamwork. Natasha shifts where she sits, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. When she speaks, it's in Russian, words barely above a breath, clearly meant only for James to hear since Clint's now responding to Tony's chattering.

" _You need to heal and Clint needs to deal with almost losing you again_ ," she says and James shudders. He'd be devastated if he'd lost Clint now, and he steals a glance at him. Clint looks... unwell. " _I suggest you both take time for that. He has a cabin upstate New York, it will do both of you good. Steve won't know you were even here._ "

James frowns. What about Natasha?

" _I'll stay behind and start the search, but I need you to go take care of Clint for a while_."

That... sounds like something he should do. Make sure Clint is fine. Something he needs to do.

Natasha smiles at him like she can read his mind.

"Yes, lady," he whispers.

"Ok, here's the plan," Natasha says, loudly, as she raises to her feet, "Clint will take James back to the States to heal," and she waves at Tony, "while you and I are going to start looking for the scepter."

"I will?" Clint asks just as Tony grins.

"Great, Bruce is already on his way," Tony rolls on the balls of his feet, rubbing his palms together.

Natasha says something, but James tunes them out, focusing on Clint. He squeezes Clint's hand tighter.

"You are," James whispers.

A beat, and Clint nods, swallows, nods again. "Ok," he breathes, rubbing his free palm over his face, "ok," and they both turn their attention back to the conversation.

"We need to start making calls," Natasha says and then looks at Clint. "You talk to Steve, I don't wanna lie to him."

"And you're making me lie!" Tony interjects, smacking his palms over his thighs.

"Please, Tony," James rasps and takes another sip of water. His throat feels raw on the inside.

That earns him a reaction as Tony rolls his eyes, twisting himself on his feet, as well, until he rotates a full circle.

"Ok, you," he points at James, "stop it with the kicked puppy look."

James frowns. Next to them Natasha laughs in her palm. Clint shakes his head as he stands.

"I'll go talk to Steve," he says, then turns to James. "Hungry?"

"How about you two go do spy things," Tony interrupts, "I'll feed him."

Clint looks from Tony to James, while Natasha looks from Clint to James, and Tony is standing there staring at Clint and Natasha in turn. James shrugs, which makes Natasha shrug, and Clint raises both palms in front of him.

"Be nice to him," Clint says as he and Natasha start moving toward the door.

"Your unwavering confidence in my people skills is staggering, birdbrain," Tony returns.

"I wasn't talking to you," comes from Clint before the door closes behind them.

Tony looks from the door to James a couple of times in rapid succession, eyes squinting. Then, he purses his lips, chews on his cheek, scratches his beard. "Hungry?" he finally says.

Now that he thinks about it, he's famished. "Yes," he says, the grating inside his throat intensifying. He rubs at his neck before taking another sip through the straw.

"Ah," Tony says, "breathing tubes. Not fun."

Breathing... how long... and James' eyes dart around the room, looking for signs of the passage of time.

"You've been out for six days, been on respirator for a while there," Tony tells him.

Six days. That's a lot. He must have been hit more seriously than he thought.

"All right, that wasn't awkward," Tony mumbles. "So dad told me you were a sci-fi fan, I think you're gonna love this."

James raises his eyebrows at him.

"JARVIS, please send a meal to this room, doctor specifications should be already in the database."

"Yes, sir. Right away," comes from seemingly nowhere.

James takes a better look around, finds the origin of the sound as a set of speakers mounted above the door.

"JARVIS is an AI," Tony grins, then sits on the edge of the mattress.

He starts talking about artificial intelligence, and even gets the machine to demonstrate its 'snark capabilities' as Tony puts it. The entire time, he's animated, gesturing widely.

Food arrives soon, and it's warm, although mushy and rather bland. But it soothes his throat and fills his stomach, quite satisfyingly, so James can't complain.

"Wow, you're really chatty, aren't you?" Tony comments before picking up the tray from James' lap and placing it on a table near the door.

"Sarcasm is the evidence of a sharp mind," James says then.

"Hey, that's what dad use to--no way, did he get it from you?"

"No," James returns. "He got it from Col. Philips."

"Huh," Tony ponders this as he strolls back over. "So--" he starts with a deep breath.

"Why do you call him that?" James has been wondering.

"Hm?" comes back with raised eyebrows.

"Birdbrain. You did it twice," he explains. "Is it supposed to be an insult?"

Tony's mouth opens and closes eloquently a few times.

"If I may," the AI's voice flows into the room.

"You may," James responds.

"The most common way sir shows affection is through insults due to an overwhelming lack of interaction skills."

"You traitor," Tony gapes at the wall. "I'll format your drives!"

"That explains a lot." This is entirely too amusing, and James lets himself enjoy it.

Tony glares at him, but he's barely holding back a smile.

"What do you call Natasha?" James asks.

"I don't," Tony shakes his head, palms raised.

"So you don't like her as much as Clint," James surmises.

That earns him a snort, followed by "That's not true. She's just more terrifying than Clint. I wouldn't dare."

James tilts his head at this information. "You're not afraid of him."

"Of Barton?" Tony raises his eyebrows.

"Are you afraid of me?"

That makes Tony frown, and he straightens his back, face suddenly serious. "No," he says. "If even a little of what dad told me of you is still in there, then you're still a good man."

James leans back with a blink. "But I'm not human."

He hasn't realized he's spoken out loud until Tony scoffs. "Of course not, you're a cyborg. Us, cyborg bros gotta stick together."

He's distracting James from his thoughts, and James could ignore him, but he doesn't want to, not right now. There will be plenty of time later, when he'll be safely away with Nemo.

He lifts his arm, makes a fist, then twists until all the plates shift. Tony lets out a low whistle at that, steps closer.

He allows Tony to look, but not more. Answers a few questions, but not all. There are things that he doesn't need to know about it. Like how much it weighs, if it still hurts, or how many times it broke his collarbone before they made it lighter.

~

1943

The Strategic Scientific Reserve is really something. Thick walls, heavily guarded. Bucky slinks about unattended, bored as Steve is doing his captainly duties. It's been two days and Bucky is almost through with his exploration of the London base.

He hasn't managed to get into the last of the laboratories yet, one marked 'Stark do not enter.' It's either meant to keep Stark out of it, or it's Stark's himself. Bucky hopes it's the latter and that there's at least one flying car in there.

The tumbles of the lock slide, rotate, until... yep, they give with a click. He opens the door carefully, making sure nobody's inside, before slipping in. The space is low lit, not big enough to be a work room. Actually, at a closer look, it seems it's just sleeping quarters. There's a desk and a large dresser, a vanity. Also, a bed in the corner, unmade with the blankets bunched up on top. That's a lot more blankets that Bucky's received. Huh.

He turns his attention to the desk and the stack of books on the edge. Oh, oh! _Amazing Stories_! He retrieves the magazine carefully from under the books. He never thought he'd get his hands on this one, it was sold before Bucky could scrounge up enough money to get it.

It's... amazing, short of a better word. The stories are so vivid, and Bucky loses himself in the words, right where he stands, wondering if he'll ever get to see the future.

"I thought you'd never come," a voice mumbles behind him.

Next thing he knows, arms are snaking around his middle and a mouth presses itself on the back of his neck, rubbing the mustache there against his skin.

Bucky yells. Well, he screams like a strangled mouse, but that's less important than the way the guy behind him shouts, pushing himself off. Bucky turns, taking a step back until he hits the corner of the desk with his ass.

That hurts, and he rubs at it, while the guy, who turns out to be Stark, after all, is wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand.

They freeze there, staring at each other, one groping his own ass, the other with half a fist between his lips.

And that's it.

The laughter that overtakes them is so hysterical that a passing Lieutenant knocks on the door, asking if everything's all right in there, which spurs them on even more.

Howard's date never shows, but Bucky learns how to make cocktails that night. In theory, 'cos all Howard has is a bottle of stale ginger ale. Now, though, he knows where to find the best science fiction on the base. And the best laugh.

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again :3  
> Well, I don't like cliffhangers either, but your comments last chapter have been so... wow. They kept me going through this one. Thank you so much :)  
> Again thanks to Molly for the beta. There might be another lull in posting because work will be a bitch for the rest of the month, and I also have to write for that big bang I signed up to, but I can't wait to write more of Nameless in general. We've got the plot planned out in large, at least for the next few chapters. It's going to be a ride! I hope :3  
> Thank you for reading!


	11. Chapter 11

2014

Clint parks the quinjet in a small clearing, surrounded by thick trees. Natasha is dropping them off and then flying to New York to meet with Steve, who kept poking at James' recollections for the entire flight, even with all the napping James was doing.

Healing takes a lot out of him, and the quiet surrounding them the whole trip, combined with how he'd been delegated to lying down, under Natasha's stare, it wasn't favorable to keeping awake. Even so, every time he opened his eyes, either Clint or Natasha were right there, next to him, a hand on a shoulder, his fingers cradled in a palm, or a soft conversation. It's how he learned he woke up twice during surgery, so they had to put him under, kept him on respirator for almost two days. Nat also told him how her shoulder wound was miraculously healed, and James is intrigued about the progress of medicine. Bucky Barnes would be so fascinated of this century... James shakes his head.

"I'll call once we have a plan," Natasha is saying while James takes in the dark green of the trees.

It's soothing and it helps push away thoughts of Steve, Bucky, and past lives. It's been a week since he's been shot and the memories just keep coming, again and again, one more violent than the other. Faces, tears, blood and pain. Both his and his doing.

"Ok," Clint says, picking up their duffel bags. "Let me know when Thor returns from Asgard."

With a nod, Natasha closes the quinjet's door and then she's up in the air.

James moves to help with the bags, but the look Clint throws at him makes him take a step back. Fine, he still needs to heal. James pokes at his side while he waits for Clint to lead the way, then follows quietly through the trees.

Clint is silent. More than before actually, his steps careful, his shoulders tense where he walks in front of James. His knuckles are white around the handles of the duffel bags and James would like to... what, he doesn't know. But he'd like to do something.

He wants to do something.

The path is too narrow, Clint is too focused on it, and soon the cabin comes into view.

It sits on a sort of a crest on the slow climbing slope of the mountain, overlooking a wide valley to their right. Up ahead, the forest is even thicker with wide trees, but James can make out a path winding up through them. To the left, a gravel road runs up to the front of the cabin, where a beat up jeep sits parked, looking like it hasn't been moved in ages. The tires are new, though, so the car must be in good condition, its appearance a decoy.

"If you need to run, don't go that way," Clint says, stopping in front of the house, a hand pointing to the path going up through the trees. "Instead go around," he tilts his head to the right. "There's a freeway on the other side of this peak, and it might seem the straight way is the shortest, but it's not."

"Right and then ahead," James nods.

"Also, back to the landing site, two clicks east, there's a hunting lodge. Supplies are under the floorboards."

James nods again. Clint is prepared and James is impressed, again. Clint never stops giving James a sense of belonging. But his words are bland, the usual color in them faded and ashy. James frowns.

Natasha said that Clint was affected by his wound. Is. Is affected. James reckons he'd be as well, if their places were reversed. And Clint said they're family, so there is logic in Clint being upset.

But for some reason he seems too upset, and James can't understand why. He has saved Natasha for Clint and Clint should be happy.

"Well, this is it," Clint says as he unlocks the door, "make yourself at home."

He shows James around. The place is large, but it only has one story. The entrance opens into a wide room, furnished with sofas and tables, desks and shelves and cabinets. There are two large screens on the walls, one between two of the four windows on the other side, and another on the wall to the right. The couches in the middle of the room face both of those, while a few more chairs are tucked around a dining table to the left. The half wall there opens into a kitchen. Up beneath the roof large beams hold it together, running above the partitioning walls into the other rooms to the right. A good idea, indeed, the beams making for an easy escape.

Clint leads them into a corridor on the left, doors adorning it on either side. There are two bedrooms, a couple of supply closets, a room full of computers that seems to have lines running toward the large living room. So, security system and communications with the outside, James concludes when he sees radio equipment on a couple of tables. The bathroom is down the hall, and Clint drops the duffel bags in one of the bedrooms.

"There are weapons in all the closets, and a few hidden in the living room," Clint says. "I'll show you where."

James nods, watching Clint from the doorway. This bedroom is as sparse as the one in the other safehouse, but only at first glance. The other bedroom down the hall looked about the same when James glanced inside.

A t-shirt sits thrown on the back of a chair in a corner.

There's a book on one of the nightstands, the edge of the wood scratched underneath.

James takes a step back.

On the hallway wall, there's a picture of Clint with Coulson holding a large fish with an arrow sticking through its head, an out of focus thumbs-up at the edge. Must be Natasha's.

He inhales. The place doesn't smell of disinfectant and bleach, like the other one did.

Oh.

When he looks back, Clint is watching him intently, as if waiting for a reaction.

"What's in there?" James asks, pointing to the only door of the corridor that's closed.

Clint smacks his lips, followed by a long exhale.

"Go see," he says, and James raises an eyebrow.

He follows Clint's instruction, anyway. The door is not locked when he turns the knob, opening into a wider space than that of the other rooms on this side of the cabin. There are two windows on the far wall, the glass glistening softly in the sunlight. Reinforced then. Here, there is no access space beneath the roof, the wall fully boarded up. There are also thin metal grooves along the edges of the windows, into the wood of the door frame... and a panel with controls next to the door, one of the buttons larger than the others.

Oh. The room can seal itself.

So it must hold something important.

The center of the space has a few tables and chairs covered in stacks of papers and bits of devices, mostly phones. To the left, across from the windows, there's a floor-to-ceiling rack of specialized weapons, a counter with cleaning supplies lined next to it. The bows and arrows stand out the most, but there are also subtle daggers and garrotes and tasers. Those must be Natasha's.

What draws James' attention, however, are the far walls, one to the right and the other to the left.

Ever since returning from Zola's imprisonment, James was able to throw a glance at any space and immediately know it in detail. But now he needs to go closer, confirm what he's seeing. He veers right first.

On shelves and in between cabinets, glass casings carefully cover a myriad of items. There's a broken arrow in one, a katana set in another, while some of the larger casings also hold folded clothing. A lipstick stands uncapped in a large container, looking lonely and bereft, but underneath it there's a photograph of Natasha, naked and defiant, eyes sparkling. The word 'magnificent' is scratched across her body in Clint's handwriting.

Above it, there's another casing... and its contents still the air in James' lungs.

His mask, his knife.

The backpack he's given Clint sits next to them, worn but cared for.

Memories. These are memories.

"You kept it," he rasps, the metal of his fingertips clinking against the glass where he touches it.

"Of course," Clint returns from where he's leaning against the door frame.

It makes something swell inside of James, something he can't quite classify. It's not apprehension, nor fear or a state of alert being brought by impending threats. Yet his heart pounds in his chest as if flooded with adrenaline. So he turns his attention toward the far side of the room.

That wall is covered in a large board. A multitude of photos, notes, newspaper clippings hang on it, while pieces of colored string are crisscrossing through, connecting events.

It's...

"It's me," he murmurs.

"Yeah," comes back in Clint's low whisper, as his footsteps fall softly on the floorboards when Clint follows James toward the board.

James is absorbed and he spends long minutes looking through everything. Next to him, Clint is silent, but he's still there, his pulse strong under James' fingers.

Oh. He hasn't even noticed he grabbed Clint's wrist, but Clint isn't pulling away. James' own heart rate increases, thankfully bereft of the agitation adrenaline brings. It's... strange, yet entirely too pleasant. Perhaps it's an effect of his wound.

"This wasn't me," he tells Clint to distract himself from the things his body are doing without his input.

"Huh. What about this one?"

"That was me," James confirms. "No idea about this," he continues while pointing at another newspaper article, "I had a flash of this place, but not of this building. It looked different."

"This is in Brooklyn," Clint says. "You grew up there, so maybe you're remembering something from back then."

Bucky Barnes grew up there, not James. But.

Bucky was a good man. James won't erase him from the world, even if his memory is meant to be carried by someone as tainted as James.

Because dirty he is, with the pain of innocents.

"I killed so many..." he breathes.

"That wasn't you," Clint says.

James dares a glance. Clint's face is open, lacking of the things that have been piling up on James, recollections of lives taken, of mindless obedience, of futures shattered. The extended sleeping he's been doing has let his mind wander in dark places, and every time James wakes up, he can still feel blood on himself, dripping, smearing, branding.

Even so, logic says it wasn't James, but that thing they broke and tortured.

The weapon they created.

Yet.

"I gave in. Might as well pulled the trigger myself."

Next to him, Clint shakes his head, but he closes the half a step distance between them so that they're pressed together. Silence stretches while James oscillates between images of Steve attacking HYDRA bases and Clint clinically taking down guards in the bank back in DC.

Both violent.

Both beautiful.

But one is darkness while the other is light.

He's tainted Clint long ago, and even though Clint's turned it into something good, James can't help but feel responsible. The wall speaks louder than anything, how long Clint's been searching, and James doesn't deserve this. He really, really doesn't. Next he knows, he's wrapped around Clint, his nose pushed in Clint's short hair.

And Clint still gives, because his arms wrap around James, his fingers press against James' spine. James doesn't have the power to push him away, but he can make sure Steve won't get corrupted as well.

A pang runs through his middle, reminding James he's still healing, making all air rush from his lungs.

"Ok, let's get you in bed for a bit while I make us dinner," Clint says, pulling away.

"On a couch," James counters while Clint steers him out of the room.

Clint only looks like he's going to argue for a second, but soon James is lying down, nestled against pillows and under blankets. Clint clangs pans in the kitchen while James watches, while his eyelids droop. It's still against his instincts, to allow the vulnerability of sleep, but his mind demands it, has been ever since they returned from that bank vault.

That Clint is safe. Clint is his.

~

1998

"Stand down, soldier."

The green-gold-blue eyes are watching him over the captain's shoulder, alight, and something swells inside the soldier's chest. He inhales, locking his legs against the ground, then presses the blade of the knife harder against the captain's throat.

"Fine. You want it, keep it." The captain steps back, hands still raised. "It's all yours."

It feels like the blue-gold-green is somewhere in another world, but the eyes approve, and the soldier bares his teeth at them. Why, he doesn't understand, but sometimes, when he fights, his body takes over and it knows what it's doing. So maybe this is the same.

"I'm proud of you. Of us. Of everything we've accomplished."

It sends a shiver through him. These words always bring back the bliss of sleep.

"And today, you've proven yourself even worthier."

Please, please, storage, please. It's cold, but please.

"Because this was a test. The mark you bear is ours, our gift to you. Nemo. And I'm very pleased you've accepted it."

A gift. And it's his. The soldier blinks, refocusing on the room, checks for auditory damage, but it's not there, the words were clear. So he lowers the knife.

"Good. Now, are you ready to shape the future with me?"

Yes, he is. For green-blue-gold and for the captain, who's always dreamed of a world without bullies, without pain and hatred and misery.

"Sit then. Lay back."

The captain turns just as the soldier bites down on the rubber, familiar numbness crawling all over his skin. But it's ok, the tremors will soon be over. He'll soon be ready to fight for a better world.

"Try to remove it again after the wipe."

"Yes, sir."

Shake and shake and no, not again, but it's unavoidable. He has to.

"And train the smiling out of him."

"Yes, sir."

"Explain to me one more time why it can't just be burned off while he's still out cold."

"As I said, sir, no sedatives work, and it would do too much muscle damage while he's still defrosti..."

It hurts. But the eyes know and sing softly, shining with water underneath the blue of oceans, underneath a yellow sun.

It hurts. But it's fine. Nemo is his. His name. His life.

~

2014

Another ten days later James is healed enough to try some exercise and it doesn't take long to convince Clint to spar on the patch of grass out back. But five minutes in, it's clear Clint's pulling his punches, just like James is. So he squares his shoulders, letting the corner of his mouth to pull up and Clint matches it.

"What's with the smirk--"

James pounces. As expected, Clint is only disoriented for a second, but then he springs to his feet. James' back hits a tree trunk next, and they're off.

It feels... amazing.

Yes, amazing.

It's freeing. Clint doesn't have the stamina James has, because he tires after a couple of hours, but the way he fights, with unexpected grace and flexibility, it's mesmerizing.

"You win," Clint gasps, pulling his t-shirt off and wiping his face.

James has learned to recognize when his mouth is smiling, and it's doing it right now.

"Yeah, no," Clint continues, "if Nat were here, we'd've wiped the ground with you."

"I don't doubt it," James says. He doesn't, he's observed both of them in action.

Clint chuckles as they walk back inside the cabin. "Should've seen Steve's face first time we trained together. Thor laughed at him for days."

Steve. James has been trying to put him out of his mind, but...

"Hey," Clint says, fingers wrapping around James' arm, "I have some video of it, if you wanna see it."

And that's how they end up on a sofa, with popcorn and beer, watching security footage of the gym at Stark Tower. Most of it is of Clint and Natasha fighting Steve. Ah, he's forgotten how agile Steve is. As they watch through, Thor starts joining in, and James recognizes him from the hallucination. He hasn't seen Bruce Banner before, but watching him turn into Hulk is raising goosebumps on his skin that stay with him for long minutes.

The Avengers are graceful as they gradually synchronize, using their fighting skills to counter each other's strengths and weaknesses.

And that thing they do, causing blast waves with the hammer and the shield...

On screen, Clint picks up the shield, throws it. Again, and again, James watches him train with Steve using that thing.

Again, and again, James remembers holding the straps in his left hand.

His breath shortens in his lungs. Next to him, Clint is asleep, head on James' thigh. He's been watching the clips for hours, the darkness of night stretching outside the windows.

Something burns at the back of his throat, moves up to lodge at the base of his skull.

The one time he's held it.

The only time Bucky picked it up and it sent him down.

Down and down and...

He lifts his left hand from where it's been resting on Clint's shoulder. He lifts his right next to it. One is shaking, one is not.

The last two things his left fingers touched were the straps of the shield and the railing that gave off, sending him in a free fall.

The last thing his right fingers wanted to touch was Steve's outstretched hand.

A warm palm wipes at his cheek and he curls in, presses his forehead against Clint's.

"How did I get here?"

Clint's hands wrap around the back of his neck and he closes his eyes.

"All I wanted was to serve and go back and now look at me. 'm a monster."

"You're not."

The words clatter into each other, crowding into a lump, and all that comes out of his mouth is an ugly sound. He trembles, with all the hurt of the past years spilling out of him, with Clint's fingers fisted in his hair, Clint's cheek against his own.

For the first time since he's got his orders, Bucky cries.

~

1943

The uniform is sharp as it hangs there and Bucky shudders. It feels like a bottomless mirror, its void staring back at him.

For some reason, it feels more ominous than it should be. Go there, fight, come back, live life, and die. Yeah, only dad never returned, left his wife and kids all alo... no, actually ma wasn't alone. She had Bucky and Becka.

But Bucky? Who will he leave behind?

Ma's tired lately. Maybe Becka will have kids, little balls of energy that never sit still and always fight for the little guy. Bucky smiles at himself. Well, if he's known that saving Stevie from a knocking around all those years ago would've taken him to this place where he wants to see a better world, he'd've... hell, he'd've done it all over again.

With a sigh, Bucky brushes away invisible dust from the lapels of the coat.

It's time to say goodbye.

He wipes at his cheek, too.

To Brooklyn and ma and Becka.

Pushes the back of his hand against his nose, draws air noisily.

To Steve.

And the uniform blurs.

To everything.

Because it doesn't feel like another day in the life. It presses on him like an ending.

He tries to ignore the way his hands shake as he picks up his favorite book off the shelf. It's ragged and worn already, but oh so very cherished. He doesn't want to risk losing it, so he's leaving it behind, made Becka promise to take care of it.

The clock in the kitchen ticks loudly in the silence of the apartment. Ma's at work, Becka at school. And Bucky curls up against the bed, book held tightly to his chest. On the cover, where the summary sits printed, the letters of Nemo have a dent in them, where Steve onced traced the word on a piece of thin paper because he liked their shape, and Bucky runs his fingertips over the lines, the N, the E, the M, and the O, then back again.

It calms the storm in his chest, soothes his mind.

He doesn't want to go, but he has to. Nobody should be massacred for being different.

Nobody.

With a deep inhale, he uses the hem of his shirt to wipe at his face. Then, very carefully, retrieves the Stark Expo tickets from between the pages of the book.

"We're going to see the future, Nemo," he breathes. "The future."

~

2014

James wipes a hand over his face after he sets down the glass of water. Clint sits across from him on the couch, matching his cross legged position.

"You know what I was afraid of when I got my orders?" James rasps.

Clint shakes his head.

"Not death. But having to kill."

Hair falls from his forehead over his face, but Clint's fingers push it back.

"We've all killed," Clint says.

It's true, and James nods. "Even Steve."

"Even Steve," Clint echoes.

Yet, somehow, Steve feels untainted. James swallows.

"It was four years ago."

"What was?"

"When I fell."

Clint's hand slides down on the plates of his arm and he catches it.

"Less than one since I met you."

And Clint's eyebrows knit at the middle. "It's been seventeen," Clint whispers, but James can already see him understand.

"Not for me. Time stopped when they put me to sleep. Went in, then when I got out the chair was there and all these weapons that I knew without touching them before. Languages I've never learned. They took so much from me..."

"They won't anymore, I'll make sure of it."

Clint's voice is low, but his words clear, and James is soothed by their conviction. But he can't predict the future, no matter how much James wants to believe it.

"You can't," he rasps, eyes fixed on the white of Clint's knuckles where he's squeezing at James' fingers.

"I'll kill you before I let them have you again."

And fuck. The jolt that runs straight through the middle of his chest startles James so badly, it sends his heart into a frenzy. Clint's face is set, eyes blazing behind his eyelashes.

"Thank you," travels through his throat.

James really is, entirely too grateful that Clint would do this for him. It earns him a small smile, tinged with too much sadness. There seems to be an underlying anguish to everything Clint does these days. James isn't imagining it, it wasn't there before, not when Clint found him that first day, not when they spent all that time in the safehouse. Not until James got shot.

It distracts James from himself, so he focuses on Clint.

"Why are you sad?" he asks.

Clint blinks at him slowly, with a flash of surprise, but then his face becomes blank as he raises an eyebrow. "Shouldn't I be, for all the crap you've been through?"

Oh, no. James has spent all this time reading his features, has spent weeks on end after he was freed from Zola with Clint's image in his mind. He knows Clint's face inside and out by now.

"It's from something else. Since I was hit."

"I'm sad because you were hurt," Clint whispers, lips barely moving.

That... James shakes his head. "But Natasha is safe, you should be happy."

Clint stills. James counts his breaths, long but shallow, as if he's forcing air into his lungs. And then... then Clint lets out a strangled bark as he stands.

James follows until they're outside. The valley is shrouded in darkness ahead, stars hidden under clouds tonight, and Clint is bent with his hands on his knees, drawing stuttering breaks between laughs that sound painful.

"Did I do something wrong?"

The sound spilling from Clint's lips turns into a half sob as Clint raises to look at James. He steps over in front of James, places both hands on the sides of his neck, thumbs firmly slotted along the lines of James' jaw.

A beat, two, three, four… there is something on Clint's face, something that calls with softness, something that stirs like a brewing storm in James' chest. Clint's eyes, the ones of blue and green and gold, are wide open, hiding an universe behind them, yet James can't grasp what they're saying.

All he knows is that this is his, it belongs to him, Clint's giving him this fraction of himself and it expands inside of James until he too tight around it.

Too soon, Clint lets go.

"I need an hour alone," Clint rasps. "I'll be over there," he points at the fallen tree trunk that sits to the side of the cabin overlooking the valley.

It's not far, but distanced enough to offer a bit of space. James likes to sit there most nights, he can see the windows of the bedroom they've been sharing from a perch on top of the wood, can keep an eye on Clint as he sleeps.

He nods, numbness creeping along his spine, and watches Clint's back for a long while. The more he tries to untangle Clint's reaction, the more confusing it seems.

Natasha said that Clint's been affected by almost losing James. Maybe she holds some answers, so James goes back inside, retrieves Clint's phone from the coffee table.

"I have a question about Clint," James says as soon as the call collects.

"James," comes back in Natasha's voice, but it's low, like she's whispering. "Now is not the time, I was just about to call you. We have a lead on the scepter, we're going to need Clint. And you if you're willing."

James frowns so fast, his forehead hurts a little, and he pushes his metal fingertips against it with a growl. Showing emotion is always bound to have dire repercussions.

"I'll take that as a no then," Natasha says. "Put Clint on."

Not only does James not get his answers, but Clint also leaves early in the morning for New York.

And when he returns two days later, he's too preoccupied by the dreaded scepter that James pushes everything aside. It can wait. Getting Clint some peace of mind is what he needs right now and that's what James does, helping him go through endless HYDRA and SHIELD documents in an effort to find more leads.

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!  
> Thank you for reading. Feedback is much appreciated and greatly desired. Let me know your thoughts. Again, many thanks to Molly for the beta.  
> In the meantime, I've signed up for two big bang events that are due incredibly soon, so chapter 12 might again be a little late. Thank you for the patience. But on the bright side, things have started their cool down at work, hoping for even lighter workload by the end of the month. :)  
> Have an incredible day! o/


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! o/
> 
> We are officially at the halfway point of the fic. You're wondering, if this is what happens at halfway, then what will the climax entail? Well then. No spoilers. However, I'll tell you this: the first 12 chapters are part I, or book I, or however you want to call it. The next 12 will be part II. There might be a super-slight change in sequences, temporarily speaking. Nothing is set in stone yet. Haven't started working on it, although the next part of the plot is already outlined, just waiting for time and inspiration. 
> 
> I'm pleased to say I have some surprises lined up. Also, I'm really enjoying writing this, and thank you to everyone for reading it. The support keeps me going.
> 
> That said, particular thanks to the Hugglesquisher and Tanya for putting up with my language forays (and helping me choose words), and to Molly for reading this up and listening to me rant extensively over plot points.
> 
> I'll try to write fast enough for a chapter per week, or every other week, but I can't make it a promise, things are still hectic. Just know that the story is definitely not abandoned or on hiatus. It's on my mind, developing scenes and connecting dots. :)
> 
> Have an awesome weekend! o/

2014

The days are slow without Clint at the cabin, but James uses this time to sift through pieces of memories that are broken or not making sense. Some of them he manages to unwind and regain fully, while others might be lost forever.

He keeps tracks of Clint, Natasha, and the rest of the Avengers. Clint keeps him informed of his movements as they follow leads that might take them to the scepter. James also learns that while Steve is joining that search, his winged friend, Sam, is looking for James himself.

But in the end there isn't much to do out here than face himself.

Or, more accurately, face his fears.

He made a list.

He is afraid of losing Clint and Natasha. There's nothing he can do about this, though, so he swallows it down, allows it to fuel him.

He is afraid of his own arm and the fact that he doesn't know as much about it as he should. For this, he studies the files they recovered from the vault cover to cover. He learns about electronics and mechanics. It's fascinating and soon he can perform basic repairs beside maintenance. Clint tells him a couple of weeks later that regular folk don't learn this fast, but he seems pleased with James, so James will be pleased with himself as well.

He is afraid of Steve. There's a nebula surrounding this pull that he feels toward Steve that is scaring him. Given, Clint has the same effect, but Clint's metaphorical grasp has been... gentler. Calming.

With Clint, he knows what he is. Nemo.

The memories he is getting of Steve, though, make him feel dragged around, caught into a whirlwind that he cannot escape.

All these years, all this pain. He finally has something solid to grasp when he thinks of himself.

So he is afraid of Steve. Because what if that storm that comes with Steve will sweep him up? What if Nemo will lose himself?

Clint isn't pushing him to see Steve, but sometimes he asks if he changed his mind. James hasn't, not yet. He needs more time to make sure that the Nemo in him isn't going anywhere.

~

1943

"What do you say?" Steve asks as he takes a sip of his drink. "Are you willing to follow Captain America into battle?"

No. No, not... he doesn't want back into battle. He wants to rest his bones and mourn himself. Bucky keeps his smirk firmly in place even though it hurts his cheeks, because this is Steve, and he'd go anywhere for Steve.

"No," he says. "But that little guy from Brooklyn, I'd follow him."

Steve smiles.

Dread washes over Bucky, even more so than when he got his orders. He wishes with all he has to go back to that night before the 107th moved into the battle that ended in his imprisonment.

It's the last time he remembers smiling and actually feeling it.

But he doesn't tell Steve of how Bucky is now just a mangled piece of flesh and hurt.

"You keepin' the suit?" he asks instead.

"It's growing on me."

~

2014

It has been three weeks since Clint started joining the Avengers. The scepter remains elusive, but at least they're raiding HYDRA infested facilities. Beside the scepter, Clint and Natasha continue to secretly look for intel on the Winter Soldier, but they haven't had much luck so far.

Clint returned late last night with news of Thor, who is back from Asgard. Clint wants to bring him and two scientists to the cabin so they can make sense of the hallucinations James had. It says a lot about how far Clint is willing to go for James, because this place is sacred to him. James knows it already, from the care with which Clint shows it, to the utmost secrecy he holds for it. The cabin is a piece of Clint himself.

He suggests using another location, but the only place left off the radar is the house in DC next to the two old ladies, who Clint won't put in possible crossfires. He tells James that Thor is understanding, and their safe place will stay safe.

They'll arrive in a few days. Which gives James time to do something he doesn't want to, but feels like he should.

Visit the ruins of Zola's camp.

Clint doesn't miss a beat and calls Natasha to ask for the quinjet. She brings it by afternoon, but she has a lead to track down, so they drop her off in New York before setting course over the Atlantic.

The ocean stretches before them as they fly east. Clint is silent in his pilot seat next to James. There's been a sadness slowly creeping over him ever since the scepter hunt began that James is now seeing more and more pronounced.

"Nemo," James says when they've passed the ocean, "do you regret the lives you took?"

Clint looks at him for a beat, then turns to watch the sunrise coloring the sky up ahead.

"Some," he whispers.

James closes his eyes. "Same," he breathes. At least he is not the only one.

Fingers wrap around his shoulder and when he looks over, Clint is smiling.

"It's not very morally upright to be judge, jury, and executioner," he says. "But some people carry so much rotten filth. Those are the ones I don't regret."

James nods. "Do the things we need to so that good people can stay good."

"Yes."

"You've lived your life by it," he says and Clint flips a switch, engaging the auto-pilot, before turning to face James fully.

"Why are you thinking about this now?"

James blinks. "I don't..." He's not sure where he was going with this anymore. But Clint waits for him, he always seems to wait.

He's waited seventeen years for a ghost.

"Do you regret it?" The words spill out of James' mouth and ah... this was it, wasn't it?

"Not one bit," comes back immediately. Clint chews at his lips for a moment. "You were made to work for the bad guys, but even so, you managed to get me to fight them for you."

His hand extends and James wraps his fingers around Clint's.

"I am your weapon, in a way," Clint says. "But you didn't strip me of humanity. I like what I am. Do you like what you are?"

"Yes," James nods once, quickly.

"Good," Clint says, his smile unwavering, as he brings his other hand to cup his.

He rubs his thumbs over James' knuckles, then lets go and it leaves a strange feeling of emptiness behind. He considers this, as they fall back into silence. By the time they've traveled well into land, he knows why. He wants to feel more of Clint's skin on his. But they arrive at location soon enough, and there's no more time to dwell on it.

~

1943

"Haven't held hands with anyone in a long time," Bucky tells the bartender. "Unless you count a pistol. They're good at it, but a little on the cold side."

The man laughs softly, half hidden behind his long hair. There's something about him that draws Bucky in and he shouldn't do this. He really really shouldn't, not in Austria, not in the middle of war, not in this bar filled with troops having one last drink before they get shipped off to the trenches. Not with a fella, anyway, but this is Bucky's last night of leave before he has to report to camp in the morning.

The bartender looks around quickly, light glinting off his round wire glasses, before he leans closer and gives Bucky's hand a squeeze over the bar top.

Bucky's heart rabbits in his chest. He is not going to die without at least trying some of the things he's been too afraid to, back in New York. He watches the bartender's back as he serves a rowdy bunch some more beer.

"Say," Bucky asks him when he comes by a little later. "What's your name?"

The man pushes his glasses up his nose, ducking even further behind his loose hair. "They call me Nemo."

Huh. Like in his favorite book. It must be a sign and Bucky grins.

"Do you like dancing, Nemo?"

"Depends on the dance."

Bucky downs his drink and asks for water. Nemo raises an eyebrow at him as he brings him a glass.

"Haven't danced with anyone in a while," Bucky tells him.

Nemo shakes his head as he turns away and Bucky's face falls. Maybe he mistook the conversation. He ponders turning tails, but the man comes right back.

"Place usually clears by midnight. Stay."

Yes. Bucky will stay, and he smiles at his own excitement, enjoying the way his stomach flips with butterflies.

~

2014

The camp is a ruin overgrown with vegetation. It's not unexpected, although James is both relieved and disappointed. He was hoping for an answer to a question he doesn't have. It's strange enough to make him buzz with something unfamiliar under his skin.

"Any news of Budapest?" James asks as they walk around broken walls and patches of grass.

"No. Tony's been looking into the property where we thought that base might be, but there's nothing on record."

James nods. The place was already empty when Natasha and Agent May got there, the sniper's body had already been removed as well. They didn't even find the slug that pierced through James, so no chance in tracking that, either.

"Talked to Coulson though," Clint continues. "He's still trying to gather up stray agents. Said he'll send a team back there when he can spare the man power."

With an inhale, James kicks at a bit of concrete jutting out of the ground. "I don't think they'll find anything."

Next to him, Clint hums in agreement. James watches a small rock broken off by his boot roll to the side until it hits a stone.

It's peculiar.

Entirely... interesting.

James walks over and picks it up.

"What's that?" Clint asks.

"It looks like an apple," James says, holding the stone up for Clint to see. On second thought, its shape vaguely reminds James of the apple in the hallucination. But it's just a piece of stone, after all.

"I see that," Clint returns, a small twitch of the corner of his mouth betraying amusement. "You wanna keep it."

No, that's... well, yes. James wants to keep it. He turns away, slipping the rock in his pocket. Behind him, Clint chuckles.

"I used to collect small stones when I was in the circus. One from each town we'd stop in. Lost those." Clint's voice is just a whisper at the end, but it makes James face him again.

"There are no answers here," he says, looking around, "might as well bring something home. Maybe start a new collection."

A beat, and Clint's eyebrows twitch up before his face falls into that impassive set he uses when he doesn't want to be read. James takes one step closer, but Clint's already jumping from the half wall he's been standing on.

"Let's go home," Clint calls as he heads toward the quinjet.

Something swirls inside of James, but he can't place it, even if it pushes at his lips until he smiles.

He spends the entire flight back analyzing the stone, much to Clint's amusement. Its smooth surface is not irregular enough for it to be a natural occurrence, and yet, it doesn't look man made either.

It's a mystery that earns a place on the dresser in the bedroom they share. Clint calls it a pet until James flicks at his ear and this instead resonates familiarity.

He hasn't gotten any insight into himself at the camp. But this trip seems to have changed something in Clint. He's... smiling more. Laughing louder. And James finds that incredibly satisfying.

~

1943

Bucky watches the compound that imprisoned him crumbling slowly, flames still licking up into the air, both bright orange and eerie blue.

He was...

Steve stands next to him. Larger than life itself.

He is numb. Steve's hand rests on his shoulder, but he can't really feel the weight of it. His legs are shaking, his fingers trembling.

"Buck, you ok?" Steve asks.

He just...

"It feels like I left something in there," Bucky rasps.

He doesn't know why he says it, but as soon as the words are out of his mouth, he knows it's the truth. Steve eyes him from the side warily and Bucky stifles down on the need to walk toward the flames.

"We shouldn't stay here," he says, a lot louder. "Let's head back!"

Home, he almost adds, as agreements pour in from the other men. But it's just another camp they're heading into, even if it's on the other side of the front line. Home seems lost, just like that something that is now burning behind them.

~

2014

When Natasha arrives with Thor and the two scientists, James recognizes them immediately. He's seen them before, and he tells Clint this while Natasha shows them around. Just the kitchen and bathroom, actually, because there are enough sofas in the living room for them to sleep.

After introductions are made, James makes coffee, Natasha pulls out some juice, and they're soon sitting around watching each other. James sits between the two assassins and Thor between the two scientists.

"Clint tells me you've had visions of the future," Thor speaks to James. Clint's already given their three guests a stripped run down of the issue: hallucinations of Clint while under the control of the scepter and in a way that was probably connected to the Tesseract. That's what Thor calls the Cube.

"I wouldn't say visions."

"But you did see events that later happened just the way you witnessed them," the woman, Dr. Foster, adds.

"When exactly did you have these visions?" the other one, Dr. Selvig asks, studying James with too much interest.

James leans back into the sofa. Clint and Natasha look at each other from where they're still perched on the edge of the cushions, then they both look at him. It's comforting that they do this. Always ask for his permission. He nods, more of a jerk of his chin, but they get it.

"What we're about to tell you," Clint starts, "can not leave this house. Is that clear?"

"Why the secrecy, brother Hawk?" Thor asks.

"You'll understand once you know," Clint returns.

Thor considers this for a beat, then nods. Foster and Selvig seem surprised, but they add their agreements.

"All right," Clint says, inhaling. "James here was born in 1917 and his full name is James Buchanan Barnes. Yes, that Barnes," Clint confirms when Dr. Foster waves in an nondescript way toward James, "of the Howling Commandos."

"Steven's friend?" Thor asks.

James says yes, and he can see a flurry of questions form on the scientists' faces, but neither voice them.

"So when did the visions happen?"

He takes a deep breath through his nose, inconspicuously, before answering.

"In 1943 I was captured and held as a prisoner in a camp in the Alps." He's met with nods. This part is in the history books, of course. "During my time there, Zola, Schmidt's lead scientist, experimented on me. That's when it happened. I don't remember what he did to me, there are no records of it."

Thor frowns as he takes this in. "He had the Tesseract then."

"Yeah," Clint takes over and James is grateful. "They experimented with its energy and built weapons."

"Like Fury was trying during the Chitauri attack on Midgard," Thor comments.

Natasha leans back next to James as Clint nods. Her presence is calming.

"We already think the scepter and the Tesseract are connected," Foster intercepts. "What if they're made of the same energy? What if--"

"No," Selvig says as he turns in his seat. "You don't think--"

"I think," Foster returns.

"What?" Clint interrupts.

Both scientists are now leaning so far into Thor's space, that he has to nudge them aside as he stands.

"The Tesseract is one of six infinity gems. Stones with such power that they are very dangerous in the wrong hands. You saw what portal it could open."

Well, James didn't, not with his own eyes anyway, but he has seen footage, so he nods.

"Therefore," Thor continues, "what Lady Jane is trying to say, what if the scepter holds another infinity stone?"

"Another one?" Clint stands as well. His frame is tense and James would like nothing more than grasp his hand right now, but he can't. Not in front of strangers, even though these three were in the hallucination.

"I remember my brother being quite taken with these gems, always coming around with excitement at uncovering hidden traits and uses for them," Thor says as he paces the space in front of the windows. "Alas, I did not pay attention to what he was saying, it seems." He's frowning as he stares at the carpet, lost in thought.

The room is silent. Understandable. Clint had told James that Loki was gone, his last action a redeemable one as he stopped the hit that would have ended Thor's life. He is surprised by how much people can forgive others.

"James?"

James follows the voice. "Yes, doctor?"

"Please, call me Jane."

Natasha raises as well, then she and Clint join Thor on the other side of the room, their voices quiet as they talk. If anyone can help a person focus on a goal, it's Natasha, so he only keeps a third of his attention there.

"All right," James returns. "What do I call you?" he asks Dr. Selvig.

"Oh, you can call me Erik," he waves, distracted as he rubs at his chin.

"Can I ask you a few questions?"

James looks back at Jane, considering. "It won't guarantee answers," he offers and she nods, a small smile gracing her lips.

He expects her to ask him about the Winter Soldier and HYDRA and Steve, but she doesn't.

"When the visions happened, did you feel solid? Like you were in your own body?"

Huh. James takes his time to consider this. It didn't even feel like he had a body. "I was floating in water."

Jane leans forward with her elbows on her knees. "Maybe you were the water itself?" she asks, but it's a whisper.

It makes James straighten in his seat. "Perhaps."

"Mh." Jane's lips twitch upward with the half bitten hum, but then her mouth sets in a grim line. "What color was the water?"

"Blue, like the Cube."

"Any other objects that seemed important or recurring?"

"A yellow sun and a green apple."

Jane blinks with something old and heavy in her eyes.

"It was definitely another gem," she says, louder, with a deep breath, and Erik snaps his fingers before bending down to the bag at his feet to shuffle through his papers.

"How do you know this?" Natasha asks.

"Because what he describes," Jane gestures toward James, "I felt it. I was host of the Aether last year. An infinity gem."

That explains the feeling coming off of her, the one of suffering.

"So the one on the scepter is either green or yellow, but it looks blue in the photos," she continues as Thor walks over to rest a hand on her shoulder. "I don't know what these colors are supposed to repres--"

"Aha!" Erik exclaims, fluttering a sheet of paper in the air.

"What is this?" Jane mutters, snatching it from him.

"The Cube had a peculiar wavelength embedded within its energy signature," Erik says, standing up and gesturing excitedly. "It's from the visible spectrum, close to the blue light wavelength. Then, I remembered some of the measurements Jane did of the Aether and there was the wavelength of red light in one of the data sets."

Jane follows him up, and James stands as well.

"He's right," Jane says. "If these variables act as some sort of fingerprints, we can use them to find the yellow and green." Her eyes grow wide as she turns to James. "Wait, you were affected by three gems at the same time. How are you alive?"

"When Loki came," Clint jumps in, "me and Selvig were near the Cube. We're still here."

Jane's forehead scrunches and she shrugs, lacking an explanation.

"So the stone of the scepter is most likely a separate infinity gem," Thor comments, bringing the conversation back on topic.

It doesn't bode well. The scepter is missing and it has a lot of power, which is now more apparent than ever.

"And there's one we've never heard of before," Natasha adds. "If the scepter affects free will, and the hallucinations connected James and Clint seven decades apart--"

"Then the third one might affect time," Jane finishes.

"I don't think it was just free will," Clint says, his voice quieter than usual. "Loki controlled the Chitauri warriors with it."

Thor hums in agreement. "If the connection happened between your mind and James' then the scepter might have an effect on other aspects of a mind."

"A time stone would be pretty bad, too," Erik comments and they all turn to him.

"Time manipulation is strictly forbidden," Thor says.

"Asgard has time traveling technology?" Jane asks, distracted by this information.

"Of course not," Thor says.

"These are all assumptions," Natasha interrupts, crossing her arms. "We need more information."

Clint is looking at James with concern, and James pushes at his own lips, smiles with what he hopes will be construed as reassurance. It works, because Clint squeezes his wrist quickly while nobody is paying attention.

"I'll return to Asgard for more information," Thor offers.

"We should set up some tests, get some readings first," Jane adds, "if James will allow it. This way, maybe you'll have something extra to search for. Ask a scientist, don't do that whole 'I'm prince therefore I don't need help' thing," and Thor scoffs sheepishly at her, but doesn't contradict.

James swallows. Tests are never a good thing.

"Ok," Clint intervenes, "how about we have some dinner first? It's getting late and I think we could all take a break, process this, and resume in the morning."

Erik looks like he's about to argue, but Jane shushes him.

"Nourishment sounds marvelous," Thor agrees with a smile. "I'm famished."

~

1944

"What's this?" Bucky asks as he holds up a piece of glass encased in a metal cage. "Part of a new weapon?"

Howard's laboratory is full of wonders and Bucky finds his way here more often than not. If he's lucky and Howard is not trying to schmooze an innocent dame, he gets to ask things, even gets answers.

"No, that's just a prism."

Bucky taps at the exposed sides of the glass. "What's it do?"

Howard looks up from under Steve's motorcycle party annoyed.

"If you tell me," Bucky says, "I'll hold that up for you so you don't have to crawl under."

Howard narrows his eyes at him.

"I'll even fix it," Bucky raises his hands.

"Oh yeah?" Howard now stands, crossing his arm.

Bucky grins. "Yeah. Seen you poke at it enough times already."

It earns him an incredulous look, but Bucky knows Howard enough by now to see the challenge in his eyes.

"If you fix it in three hours, I'll show you," Howard says, tipping his head at the prism and extending the wrench in his hand.

"I'll do it in two."

Of course, Bucky finishes faster than that.

And the prism... it's so simple, what it does, yet so amazingly beautiful. Bucky should have realized it himself, he muses, as he runs his fingers through the rainbow produced by the piece of glass.

"Hey, pal," Howard asks, later that night, "ever thought of going into science? You know, when you get back home."

Bucky shrugs. He isn't thinking much of the future these days. Everything seems... temporary right now. Like that artificial rainbow, Bucky himself feels spread out thin, as if he's just waiting for that final gust of wind that will sweep him apart.

~

2014

Dinner is simple, but both Jane and Thor praise his cooking. James is pleasantly content about it.

They gather on the sofas afterwards. Jane talks to Erik in the corner of one, exchanging papers between themselves. Natasha is sprawled next to Thor as they flip through television channels on one of the screens mounted on the wall, each trying to grab the remote out of the other one's hand. Clint is sitting next to James, legs crossed beneath himself, his knee a comforting point of contact to James' thigh.

Now that he has time to consider everything, he finds that the afternoon has left him a bit unbalanced, and James steadies his breathing, focusing on keeping a sense of calm around himself.

"I like this program," Thor says, holding the remote away from Natasha.

"It's just the history channel," Natasha mutters, unimpressed.

"Exactly. I have yet to learn most of Midgard's history for the past few centuries. Now, what is this ISS?"

Natasha's eyelids fall halfway closed, but she answers anyway. James turns his attention to her, curiosity piqued.

"International Space Station. Astronauts go up there to do whatever they do in space. Explore."

"Midgard is capable of space travel?" Thor asks, excitement building up, but Natasha shakes her head.

"Not yet."

Thor hums, returning to watch more of the documentary. There's a scientist speaking in Russian under a translator's voice and a pang vibrates into James' ear.

"And Sputnik is also a space station? The all-speak insists it means satellite." Thor stumbles onto the word, trying to say 'sputnik' and 'satellite' at the same time, but the sound crackles around its own core.

Main directive: return to base. James frowns at the ache in the back of his head.

"No, no, that's a satellite, Earth's first one actually. Funny thing," Natasha's voice reverberates onto itself, "I once stumbled upon a heavily redacted file detailing the Sputnik project, and on the purpose line it only had a bunch of unrelated words."

"Like what?" Jane asks, her voice stretching out with the air that's slipping away.

"Sputnik, tsvetok, son, tekhnika, svet, vladeniye," Natasha recites.

Perception tilts until nothing is the way it's supposed to be. Something crawls under James' skin, but he doesn't understand until it's too late.

Main directive: return to base. Secondary directive: eliminate any obstacles.

"Hey..."

James screams, unheard, as his own hand lifts with the gun hidden under the sofa.

"Fuck! Fuckfuckfuck, get down!"

The world is dark.

There is nothing but oblivion.

James is no more.

~


	13. Book II Intersections

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone o/
> 
> The story continues with Clint and James' journeys toward each other in the face of external forces that seem to want to guide them through places that might or might not be real, their intentions unknown. Dramatic enough? Teheh. 
> 
> Many thanks to Hraf for his patience in listening to me whine about the story and providing valuable smacks over my figurative fingers when I tried to write weird things.
> 
> As usual, feedback much appreciated! Thank you for reading.

## Book II Intersections

~

2014

Clint blinks with a long inhale from his spot on the sofa next to James. The room is humming with the documentary on the TV under the quiet voices of Jane and Selvig. He's only half paying attention to Nat and Thor talking about space travel, too preoccupied by the implications that the infinity stones bring. He's been high strung for weeks.

He steals a glance at James and his chest lurches. The constant affection he's held for years is now amplified and he feels it reverberating through his bones. James saved Nat for him. James called the cabin home.

If Clint weren't already attached, he'd definitely be now.

Nat says something about a mission and words in Russian flow from her lips. They grate on Clint's distracted mind, but he doesn't understand why until he feels James tense so hard that his leg is almost vibrating where it's pressed against Clint's knee.

Something is wrong.

"Hey, you ok? James?"

But James just stares ahead, eyes unfocused, mouth slack. He leans forward, metal arm sneaking under the sofa. The gun in his hand glints so differently in the light when he stands up.

Air freezes. Clint's veins are solid with pain when he registers James' actions, when he sees him aiming at the scientists.

Only his quick reflexes kicking in save Jane. Clint shoves his shoulder into James' side just as the gun discharges and the bullet hits the wall beneath the TV instead.

"Fuck! Fuckfuckfuck, get down!" Clint shouts.

Several things happen in a frenzy. James elbows at Clint's head, almost hitting him, but Clint rolls forward into the coffee table. It's not a better alternative, because it shatters under his weight and he's pretty sure right off the bat that he bruised his ribs.

Mjolnir flies from its place near the door in time for Thor to deflect another bullet, while Nat rushes forward to drag Jane and Selvig behind the couch they've been sitting on. She stands up, a gun of her own already in hand, but she had to dodge back down when James shoots twice her way.

Thor lounges and Clint scrambles to his feet in time to see James thrown across the room.

He rushes over, breath stuck in his throat. James kicks out at him and Clint grabs his flesh hand, twists. James' weight is working against him, but he manages to topple him over.

There's a weak spot, Clint knows it, where James still feels the lingering effects of the wound, even though it's healed now. Clint doesn't want to, but he has to... so he jabs his fingers in James' side.

He's been expecting a sharp inhale, just like when he accidentally hit that place while they sparred. Instead, all he gets are lifeless eyes, calculating and cold, before the metal of James' left fist hits Clint in the gut. He chokes on his own spit as he rolls away.

Between one blink and the next, James is dodging Mjolnir as he runs out the door.

There is too much silence.

Too much stillness.

Clint climbs to his feet, then turns to face the room.

Nat's eyes are wide as she stares at him. Her throat bobs with a swallow and Clint matches the motion.

"What just happened?" Jane asks.

"Trigger sequence," Nat says. Her voice rasps against the words, a subtle shift that Clint has learned to recognize over the years, even though on the surface she appears calm and collected.

"You mean--" Thor starts.

"Brainwashing at its finest," Clint spits, unwilling to hide the bitterness. His chest hurts enough to make the rest of his body feel numb.

He pushes away at the pain until he can focus on the next course of action. Problem: James is gone. Solution: retrieve James. Simple enough to keep him from falling apart.

"I'm going after him," he says, heading into the panic room to gear up. He's no match to the Winter Soldier in sweats and barefoot. "Get them out," he tells Nat over his shoulder, without bothering to specify who. Their guests need to leave for their own safety.

"Clint."

He doesn't answer Nat as she follows him, doesn't look at her as she closes the door behind them.

"I should've known better," Nat says.

Clint has to close his eyes and take a deep breath. His mouth bends in a grimace despite himself. "Me too," he rasps.

A huff follows and Clint finally looks over. Her shoulders are slumped.

"Can you backtrack to where you found that file?" he asks.

"Yes," she says, head snapping up with understanding. Her body straightens, her mouth opens and she breathes in, carefully.

Clint walks closer, wraps an arm around her waist and presses his cheek against her temple. "Good. We'll find whoever put those words in his head," he promises.

Nat's exhale tickles the side of his neck. It's not her fault and now that the shock has passed, she knows it, too. Her arms snake around him, squeezing once, before she lets go, and Clint steps back to grab a pair of cargo pants and a vest.

They change quickly, arming themselves with icers. Nifty inventions, these special guns that stun and tranquilize instead of wounding. He was skeptical of them when Coulson gave him a few to try out, but now he's grateful.

When they enter the living room, Jane and Selvig are standing in the middle of the space, their bags at their feet, while Thor is surveying the space. His Asgardian armor is already encasing him, the version of it that lacks a cape, that's stealthy and light.

Clint stops, Nat rounds toward the door, Thor pauses. They exchange a few glances and Clint already knows there's no deterring Thor from helping.

"I'll fly them back to New York," Nat says with a head tilt toward the two scientists.

"Maybe we can help," Jane offers, but Thor turns to her with such worry on his face, that her mouth snaps shut with an audible click of teeth.

~

Nothing much is said while they walk to the quinjet, senses on alert. But no movement or noise comes through the darkness enveloping the forest. James must have run in another direction, perhaps toward the highway. The aircraft would have been the first choice of exit here, so maybe James is confused. It reassures Clint somewhat, because if James is not up to his full Winter Soldier focus, they have a better chance at catching him.

Nat's up in the air with Jane and Selvig and Clint watches them fly away before turning to Thor.

"Alive," is all he manages to push past his closing throat.

"Of course, brother Hawk." Thor's words are quiet, his palm hot where he places it on Clint's shoulder. "I see no trail here, so he must have taken a different path," he adds, gesturing to the trees.

Clint nods, swallows. Then swallows again, inhales. "There's a freeway north-west of here," he finally says, starting back toward the cabin at a run.

"The path we saw," Thor says.

"That one is impracticable, there's a hidden way around--" But if James wasn't aware of the quinjet, he might not have been aware of that either. "He didn't seem all there," Clint sighs, "so he might have gone straight up."

They're soon rounding the house and Thor crouches down to inspect the marks left in the rubble by James' bare feet. The night is dark, sky thick with clouds already, but Thor is Thor and Clint's eyesight is one of the best around. The soft light coming from the kitchen windows doesn't hurt either.

"What impediments await him?" Thor asks as he stands, tipping his head at the trail winding up through the trees on the slope.

"A few collapsed tree trunks and a ravine. It's not that deep, but it's wide and full of bushes."

Thor sets his hammer down on the ground and Clint shivers, a tiny bit of the tension uncoiling from his body. He retrieves an ear piece from a pocket and hands it over.

"I'll take this way, then," Thor says.

"I'll cut him off," Clint adds, already turning to the path that rounds the hill to get to the other side. From there, he can either follow the slow climbing slope or wait, the vegetation there sparse enough to allow him to catch sight of James.

~

Thor doesn't say much as he runs up the hill, but he updates Clint from time to time with whispered observations. Looks like James did go that way after all, because Thor finds signs of him there and Clint finds nothing on his side.

By the time he reaches around the hill, Thor's been inspecting the edge of the ravine for a long while. There are marks treading up and down, a broken branch, but the bushes underneath seem undisturbed. Given, Thor admits to not being able to see much from up high, the night even darker under the canopy.

So Clint waits before starting toward him. He watches the trees--

Pain blooms in his right arm as his body hits the ground.

"He's here," he gasps, then kicks out.

His foot hits James hard enough to knock the air out of him. Clint shoots once, but the shadows move around him.

A click follows and Clint grips at the source of it. The gunshot echoes loud enough to drown out Thor's concerned shout in his ear piece.

It's fine, it's fine, the bullet went into the ground. James holding the gun with his flesh hand gives Clint a better chance at disarming him, so he grips tightly and slams James' fingers against the tree behind him. The gun falls to the ground with a muffled thud, but his actions leave Clint vulnerable.

Metal fingers tighten around his neck, squeezing, relentlessly squeezing...

Clint's hands scramble, one for purchase against the metal, the other to pull his own gun. He releases a dose into James' middle, but his air supply is still cut off, even as James sways.

Something heavy slams into them, and Clint's body jolts as he hits the ground again with a gasp.

Air, there's air. Clint gulps, but doesn't let himself linger. He scrambles up, heart throbbing painfully against his ribs, to find Thor pressing James onto the dead leaves covering the forest floor. He picks up his weapon, ready to shoot another tranquilizer into James' back, but he finally goes slack.

Thor checks James' pulse.

"He's alive."

Clint falls back down.

~

Thunder follows a lighting flash as Clint leads Thor into the cabin. Thor moves to place the unconscious James on a sofa, but Clint stops him.

"No," he says, crouching to push a small rug away from behind one of the sofas. He hefts up the wooden door to the basement, then reaches under the frame to turn on the lights. "In here," he gestures at Thor before climbing down.

He takes a moment to collect himself as Thor follows more slowly. The walls of the space are still cement and still gray. The cell there is still as barren as he left it. There's nothing inside, but for a foam mattress and a blanket.

Clint swallows.

"What is this place?" Thor asks as he deposits James on the mattress.

"I built it two years ago," he says.

"For what purpose?"

"Me." Clint's throat clicks with it.

He dares sneak a peek at Thor, who's looking back with understanding on his face. Thor nods, once, then turns his attention to the transparent fourth wall of the cell.

"It's reinforced," Clint tells him, more to give himself something to focus on than the memories of spending night after night in here while Nat watched him from the other side. The reminder of his own nightmare induced screams echoing off the concrete down here still shakes him sometimes.

James' form is still, but his chest is moving with his breaths and Clint studies him for a moment. He doesn't seem injured, save for scratches on his flesh arm. He's dirty from his track through the forest, and Clint moves to the sink in the corner. There's a wash cloth in the cupboard underneath, which he wets before he walks into the cell.

He cleans James' face, pushing his hair off his sweaty forehead.

He wants to beg. For what exactly, he's not sure, but he'd do it if it meant James is safe. He would, even with Thor watching over his shoulder.

With a shake of his head, Clint pulls himself away to freshen the cloth. He's stepping out of the cell when the hairs on the back of his neck raise. He presses the button to close the door and turns in time for James' metal fist to slam into the glass.

It doesn't give.

Thor shifts closer and Clint would laugh at his protective stance on any other day, but right now he needs the support.

"James?" Clint tries, but receives no recognition.

Instead, James inspects the cell, before turning cold eyes at them.

"Nemo..." he tries, but his voice drifts away in a trembling wisp when James turns his back at him.

He sits cross legged on the edge of the mattress. James' fingers twitch as he rests his wrists on thighs. He eyes shift, still looking for an escape and Clint... Clint's knees give out.

If it weren't for Thor gripping his elbow, he would've hit the floor. As it is, Thor is leading him up the stairs with a soft incentive to clear their heads.

Clint is numb.

~

Inhale, count, exhale. Count again. Start over.

"He holds a dear place in your heart," Thor says. He's sitting next to Clint on the couch, close, but not too close.

Clint nods. There's no reason to lie to Thor, he's seen right through the desperation to get James back safely and he's still looking at Clint like he's an open book. But this is Thor, who, despite the clueless facade he's inclined to use, is a demi-god, and an old one at that.

"He made me what I am," Clint offers.

A hum follows and Clint watches Thor's armor vanish bit by bit until he's sitting there in jeans and t-shirt again. "You mean what you really are."

Clint's breath catches at the back of his throat.

"Don't worry, my friend," Thor continues, "I've known since the battle with the Chitauri. You actually remind me of--" Thor stops, leans back, and watches the ceiling for a few seconds. "My mother was kind and gentle. But cross her and the entirety of Asgard's ruthlessness flowed through her."

"I've never been gentle," Clint mumbles.

"We rarely see ourselves through the eyes of others," Thor returns and it pulls a soft snort out of Clint. "You are the only one who Natalia regards with any amount of gentleness. That couldn't spawn on its own, unless freely given beforehand."

Sounds like Thor sees even more than Clint thought.

"You should stop playing dumb," Clint says.

"And how would that be entertaining?"

Thor's smile transfers minutely to Clint's lips, but their upward twitch is short lived. Clint's phone buzzes from the table.

"Speak of the devil," he says as he reads Nat's text. "Jane and Dr. Selvig are at the tower. Nat's coming back."

Thor nods, the tension dissipating from around his eyes. Clint texts back with their status before dropping the phone on the table and picking up the remote. It doesn't take long for him to access the feeds from the two cameras monitoring the basement.

James hasn't moved.

"Will you tell Steven about this?" Thor asks a few minutes later.

"If he doesn't snap out of it, yeah," Clint returns, his voice thick and heavy, yet barely there, "we'll have to."

~

Clint runs his fingers over the angry bruises around his neck, the ghost feeling of metal causing a slight shiver that turns into goosebumps. It takes him back to that moment in the gas station when the same metal hand was used to soothe him, in the face of immediate death.

Those fingertips, so gentle against his skin, while Clint's own hands grappled for purchase around the metal wrist.

Thor sees Clint as gentle, even though Clint would beg to differ... but perhaps, perhaps it all started with Nemo and that one caress. Clint closes his eyes, allows the memory to surface fully. His eyes fill behind his eyelids, but the drops of water only escape when he looks back into the mirror. They itch around his eyes and Clint blinks before wiping at his entire face.

A knock on the bathroom door interrupts his thoughts.

"Clint," Nat's voice drifts through.

She's back.

For the past couple of hours Clint's been trying to get through to James without success. All he received for his attempts were dead stares. Thor had to drag him out when he kept repeating James Buchanan Barnes for minutes on end, sent him here to wash his face.

The thing that jars Clint the most are James' eyes. They're dull, the light in them gone. Back when Clint first met him, yes, his gaze was cold, but there was something sharp in it. Now, it feels like there's nothing there but void and mindlessness.

With a deep breath, he opens the door and allows Nat to read him. He's unfocused, compromised, unstable. She needs to know this. The seconds trickle in silence between them, but finally Nat nods, straightening her shoulders. Good, she'll be the strong one now and Clint thanks her with a peck to her cheek.

"Let's get you out of this gear," Nat says and Clint shakes his head.

"Wanna try again first. Best to keep it on, in case he escapes."

Nat doesn't seem to agree, but she follows him downstairs anyway. Thor turns to them from where he's been watching James inside the cell.

"Perhaps locking him in there is detrimental to earning his trust," Thor comments as they approach.

Clint nods. "Yeah, I was gonna--"

The words taper off as they leave his throat, but Clint doesn't try to force them out anymore. He pushes a button on the control pad and the glass door that makes up a third of the transparent wall slides off with a soft rasp.

"Do you remember me, Nemo?" Nat asks from behind.

James' eyes don't leave Clint as he stands there, ignoring the question. He's been ignoring everything, even Clint's tattoo, even his own tat on his wrist.

He attacks. He's fast, so fast that Clint doesn't have time to par the blow to his middle and he skids until his back hits the wall. Thor, however, is not so distracted and he knocks James back inside the cell while Nat closes the door.

Everything that's been bottled up in Clint's chest bubbles angrily up his throat. He knows his jaw is trembling, knows his eyes are leaking, but he can't stop it, can't cut off the scream that makes its way out of his mouth. He scrambles to his feet toward the glass, smacks at it with his palm.

"Come on!" he yells. "Come on, asshole, remember!"

His shouts hurt on the inside of his throat, and he struggles against the tight grip around his middle. He kicks and growls, but he's no match to Thor who walks him up the stairs.

In the living room, Thor lets him go and all Clint wants to do right now is claw his own skin off his face with the fiery pain running through his veins. Clint stumbles toward his bedroom--

Their.

Their bedroom.

He's inside, the door slamming shut behind him, and he lets his fingers fist in his hair. He screams with his entire being.

Fuck HYDRA, fuck everything. Fuck the stones and the pain and the torture. Fuck this feeling that's eating through him until his throat constricts. Fuck Zola and his exp--

Clint's eyes fall on the apple-shaped stone James had brought back from their trip. He picks it up. It's heavy in his palm, smaller than a tennis ball. James said 'home' when he found this--

James said--

Anger bubbles up again enough to push another incoherent yell out of him and Clint throws the stone against the wall.

It shatters with a crack, the debris falling down on the floorboards.

Clint's chest heaves as he revels in the destruction, but his satisfaction is short lived.

Fuck.

James' stone.

He hurries over, fingers shaking as he runs them over the broken pieces... something glints under fine dust. It's something made of metal and Clint has to, he just has to touch it.

It looks like a dog tag, only one, on a ball chain. Clint wipes at it with his thumbs, raising to his feet, and as he scrubs the dust off, the metal slides against itself, opening in two halves. Inside, the tiniest gem glows green.

The floor shifts under Clint's legs, the room tilts, and Clint has to adjust to maintain his balance.

The smell of disinfectant and blood fills his nostrils suddenly. Clint looks around only to find himself in a locker room. It appears to be a SHIELD one, for strike teams and mission prep, given the considerable amount of weaponry on the tables to his left. To the right, metal lockers stand tall, benches in front of them.

Clint lifts a hand and touches a pistol. It's solid. Real. He slides the plates of the dog tag back onto each other, covering the gem, and slips it around his neck, before grabbing a handgun and checking its clip.

He's about to pry open the door to the room when loud footsteps drift in from outside. A few seconds later, two guys in tac gear shuffle in.

"Hey, Smith," one of them tells Clint and Clint nods at him. "We're back, they're transporting the asset now. Rostov wants you on the floor in fifteen."

"Sure," Clint returns, trying not to give himself away.

"You're gonna have your hands full this time," the guy continues as he opens a locker.

It says Martin on the door and Clint eyes the other nameplates until he finds the Smith one. They don't seem to be locked, because the handle gives without protest when Clint turns it.

"Gather this," Martin gestures with one hand as he unclips his vest with the other, "the fucker got a tattoo. Unknown origin. Ah, and Rostov killed Strovinsky, shot him right in the head."

Clint hums against the feeling of dread spreading through his veins. There's a mirror on the inside of the locker door and Clint can't take his eyes off his own reflection. The bruises on his neck are gone and his face looks strange. As if he's there, but not really there.

As if he's watching himself from all sides at once, and his gaze keeps skittering away the more intently he tries to look at himself.

He holsters the gun he's been holding before inspecting the contents of the locker. Nothing of value, nothing personal.

"Whoa, whoa," Martin says. "No guns, remember?"

Clint's fingers are numb as they wrap around the electric prod that Martin hands him in exchange for his weapon. His legs are numb, too, as he walks out the room. The corridor stretches on both sides, but Clint turns mechanically and follows the red direction line on the floor until he's inside a large chamber, on a catwalk surrounding it as it dips down below.

"Smith," a voice says and Clint turns to it.

The black, nondescript uniform the man is wearing doesn't bear any name, but Clint surmises this must be Rostov.

"Sir," he replies as he moves closer to the railing.

"Go help Genso remove that abomination from his wrist before Pierce sees it and executes us all."

Clint's heart stutters in his chest at the sight beneath them. His being shudders at the thought of mutilating Nemo.

Dear, precious Nemo, as he leans back in that chair, waiting patiently for more pain. His Nemo, eyes alive as he stares up at his torturers, a challenge in them that says he might be broken, but he's not defeated.

Clint turns, grips at the sides of Rostov's head, and twists. The man's spine gives with a crack against the clatter of the prod as it falls on the slabs of the catwalk.

The floor shifts under Clint's legs, the room tilts, and Clint has to adjust to maintain his balance. The smell of disinfectant and blood fills his nostrils suddenly. Clint looks around only to find himself in a locker room.

The dog tag is hot against his skin under his t-shirt and Clint tries to get back his bearings. That's when Martin and the other guy walk into the room and Clint shoots them both. The floor shifts under Clint's legs, the room tilts, and Clint has to adjust to maintain his balance. The smell of disinfectant and blood fills his nostrils suddenly.

"What..." Clint breathes.

Well. Fuck.

~


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning guys.  
> *wide grin* Here we go! I'm excited about this chapter and the next more than I should be. Hraf has again been patient enough to listen to me rant endlessly about these things.  
> Now, I have plenty of work during next week, but I'll try to get the next chapter done by next weekend. I'll try. *deep breath*  
> So, enjoy! :)

1997

So far Clint has determined a few things. For one, it's 1997. Second, he doesn't feel like himself. He's more of a replica, a fake. The implants beneath his skin don't even feel as if they're there. He can't see the scars in the mirror, can't feel the switches with his fingers. It's concerning.

Third, if he kills anyone, he resets to the locker room. There must be a plan he can't deviate from, but Clint hasn't been able to stop himself so far. To keep himself from trying to save Nemo.

The floor shifts under Clint's legs, the room tilts, and Clint has to adjust to maintain his balance. Attempt number thirty six. Or maybe it's thirty seven. He's going to lose count soon enough, though, as nothing he writes on his skin or paper comes through the reset with him.

The tag burns against his skin, Clint feels it as if it's charring his flesh, but no marks appear on his chest.

He's pretty sure by now that the green gem is the time infinity stone. There is no other explanation. However, he doesn't know the rules this thing works on. He's read enough science fiction in his life to know timelines can't be fucked with, so there is that. Perhaps it's a failsafe to keep him from messing up the future.

But if that's the case, why is he here?

Just to witness James' pain?

It seems unnecessarily cruel.

Martin and the other guy enter the room. Clint always forgets to check his name, but it's not like it matters. He grabs the prod, then walks through to the large room the agents and military around here call 'the floor.' He presses his palm against the tag under his vest, considering.

Fine. He'll try something else this round.

So Clint climbs down to where James sits in the chair. He's already shackled to the armrests, right wrist turned upwards and waiting for someone to cut off the skin there.

A low growl drifts into the air as Clint approaches Nemo. Clint doesn't look at him. Instead, he surveys the room, determines that only Rostov is around and quite busy with a phone call up on the catwalk.

"Hello, Nemo," Clint whispers as he bends down to inspect the tattoo. James' fingers twitch, the muscles of his right arm bunch with the strain against the shackle. "Don't worry," he breathes, "I won't let them take it away from us."

"Ah, here we are," an accented voice comes from the side.

Clint straightens to be met with the image of a short balding man in a white coat. A doctor, maybe. The man pokes at the machines surrounding the chair before shuffling closer to see the tattoo for himself.

"What are you waiting for," he screeches at Clint brandishing a scalpel, "take it off."

Everything about this man grits on Clint's nerves, so he flicks off the switch to the magnetic locks of the chair and steps back. Nemo is out of the chair in a heartbeat and the scalpel finds its way into the doctor's eye before James turns to Clint.

The round doesn't reset. Interesting.

"Sit back down," he tells James, voice low and quiet.

It takes a moment, but James complies.

Rostov rushes in, yelling for explanations. "What the hell happened here?"

"He won't have it removed," Clint answers, as calmly as possible. Actually, he is as calm as he gets. Relaxed, even.

Rostov swears and spits at the doctor's body. "Pierce is coming in here," he grits, worry creasing his forehead.

It gives Clint an idea. "If I may, sir," he says and Rostov squints at him. "Just tell Pierce this is a reward for good work."

"What do you know," Rostov rounds at him, "little grunt. Your job is to keep him from killing us, not give ideas."

Clint smiles and flicks the shackles closed. That's when Rostov seems to realize that the Soldier he fears has been free while he was standing right there.

"You let him out!" Rostov shouts and Clint snaps his neck again.

The floor shifts under Clint's legs, the room tilts, and Clint has to adjust to maintain his balance.

Hm. So no killing Rostov. Ok.

He repeats the events of the last round, but this time he shoves the scalpel in the doctor's eye himself. Nothing happens, but Rostov does come down yelling with worry. He has to silence Rostov again and Clint is back at the beginning.

This time around, he doesn't kill the doctor, not just yet. Instead, he grabs the scalpel, bends over James again. That's when he notices that James' legs aren't tied.

"Kick me," he whispers.

He brings the scalpel closer to Nemo's skin, waiting... ah, yes. The air rushes out of him as James kicks out, but Clint's been expecting it and he makes a show of falling onto the switch that releases the shackles.

The ruse works. The doctor is dead, and afterward Clint pushes gently at James' chest. It's fortunate that James complies and sits back down. Rostov is appeased and impressed with Clint's skills of keeping the asset in line. Clint sighs internally, wondering when he can kill the fucker.

Even so, Rostov expresses his worry that Pierce will execute them all and Clint gives his two cents back. Rostov sneers at him again, but when Pierces strolls in a few minutes later, he suggests what Clint's suggested. Pierce is in a hurry, though, and too impatient to hear Rostov out.

"Fine," he says. "We'll deal with it at the next defrosting. Put him under."

And he's gone.

Clint reels.

~

It appears that Jeffrey Smith is an agent that travels with the cryo chamber. He takes care of paperwork, deals with rotating technicians and doctors, inspects the power supply and the vitals of the subject. Clint finds himself snorting at everything.

He doesn't dare make another move on anyone else. James is safe for now, slumbering in his chamber, and Clint spends his days looking at him through the frosted glass. Nemo's features are muted and blurred, but Clint can still see the shape of his nose, the strands of his hair where his head is resting back, the line of his neck. So Clint doesn't dare risk another reset.

His beard isn't growing, Clint realizes two weeks later.

He doesn't remember when was the last time he used the toilet or ate. His mouth tastes like apples and ashes.

They've just transported James to a location in northern Alaska and Clint sits there watching him next to a shivering technician. The guy is young, barely twenty. His teeth clatter as he pushes buttons and turns dials, even under his thick winter coat. Clint makes a mental note not to run around in only a t-shirt anymore, not in this cold, lest he attracts unwanted attention.

This kid, though. He's so young. Friendly. So Clint dares ask questions and receives a full tutorial on how to operate the cryo chamber. A skill that might come in handy, then.

~

That night, after he makes his last round, he stops in front of Nemo. The basement they're in is quiet and dark, the closest guard outside the heavy metal doors separating them from the world.

He is tempted, oh so very tempted to take James out and run off.

Instead he leans his forehead on the glass, wrapping his fingers around the tag, and closes his eyes.

"I'll watch over you, I promise, Nemo," he whispers. "I promise."

The metal heats in his palm and Clint lets it go with a hiss as he takes a step back. From under his t-shirt, a faint green glow shines through the material. The floor shifts under Clint's legs, the room tilts, and Clint has to adjust to maintain his balance.

He inhales as he takes in his surroundings. The cryo chamber is still there, but Clint hasn't imagined that reset. He can recognize it clearly by now.

However... the walls aren't the same. They're not in Alaska anymore.

There's a desk laden with papers to the side and Clint shuffles through them. It's 1998, June. A year later.

~

1998

"Time for the pre-scheduled check-up," Dr. Russel chirps as she approaches the cryo chamber. Her heels click on the floor tiles.

Clint's been through this four times already. The check-up means they defrost James, wipe him, test him, then throw him back in. One hundred and forty four hours of torture. Not considering how they're going to try and remove the tattoo.

He fiddles with the safety of his weapon. Shooting this overconfident woman again seems counterproductive. So he scares the techs away, whispering between coughs about fungus growing on the bottom of the cryo chamber. It allows him to assist Russel in whatever she's doing. Clint repeats everything eight times, until he learns her password to the system, knows exactly how to wake James safely.

Then, he tries several methods of persuading her that removing the tattoo while he's defrosting is going to do irreparable damage to their asset.

She's not convinced. Clint doesn't fault her. He's learned she had almost thirty years of operating within the HYDRA ranks, most of those studying the Winter Soldier. She is their go-to authority when it comes to handling the maintenance of the asset's body.

~

Around the twentieth reset, Clint gets an idea. First, he flirts with her enough times to get her to tell him if she has physical records somewhere. Shoots her in the temple as soon as she's about to kiss him. But it's worth it, because it confirms that all medical data is now stored in their electronic system, since Russel travels a lot and she needs constant access. It's 1998, so it's less advanced than what SHIELD had in 2014 and Clint finds himself at an advantage.

When he's ready, he enters the system using Russel's credentials, falsifies her notes and findings. The new information says it's impossible to remove tissue from James while defrosting and that all known analgesics don't work. It's a stretch, but Clint makes it sound good and like it's backed up by experimental data.

This time, when he shoots the lady doctor, she stays dead and the loop doesn't reset.

~

Two days later, Clint watches as James holds a knife to Pierce's throat. He's made sure James could easily take it away from Clint, after whispering into Nemo's ear to fight for his tattoo ever since waking up.

"Stand down, soldier," Pierce says.

Nemo's gaze finds Clint's over Pierce's shoulder. He is incredibly beautiful and Clint can't help pour his entire being into silent support toward him. Nemo locks his legs on the trail of an inhale and presses the blade harder against Pierce's neck.

"Fine. You want it, keep it," Pierce says, his hands still raised in surrender at his sides. "It's all yours."

The corners of Clint's mouth twitch upward in victory. Nemo's own lips part in a smile, awkward, unused, and just as fragile as it is terrifying. His eyes are locked with Clint's, making the affection he holds for James twirl inside his chest.

It's tainted by Pierces manipulation, as he tells James that this has all been a test and his allegiance is solid. "I'm proud of you. Of us. Of everything we've accomplished, and today, you've proven yourself even worthier, because this was a test. The mark you bear is ours, our gift to you, Nemo, and I'm very pleased you've accepted it."

Clint's skin crawls at hearing that name from Pierce's mouth.

Finally, James steps back and drops the knife. He sits in the chair when Pierce tells him to, accepts the mouth piece from the tech. Clint's insides already hurt for him. He's witnessed this already, but he can't-- it's a good thing he doesn't need to eat.

Nemo trembles in the chair and Clint trembles with him, but he doesn't look away. He holds on, strong for James.

"Try to remove it again after the wipe," Pierce says and receives a hurried "Yes, sir" in return.

Mission accomplished. Pierce can be influenced after all, in very subtle ways. Clint almost grins, but his entire being goes cold at Pierce's next words.

"And train the smiling out of him."

Pierce leaves, barking more orders, while an unknowing and unsuspecting tech recites from the late doctor's research, how they can't remove the tattoo, how no sedatives work.

The wipes that they put James through afterward are painful to watch, but just as useless and Clint breathes easier once Pierce gives up with increasing annoyance.

He'll never forgive Pierce, though, for taking Nemo's smiles, even as small and frail as they were.

~

He gets to spend two more weeks watching Nemo as he sleeps in the chamber before the stone transports him somewhere else.

So maybe he's meant to help James hold onto being Nemo.

Maybe that's what the stone is doing: placing him where he needs to be in order to bend history just enough.

Even with the resets and being able to dig for information, intel on the network of HYDRA bases is still scarce. Records of personnel aren't as rich as Clint's been expecting, a lot of them redacted, even in their electronic form. And since every time he jumps he is still the guardian of the cryo chamber, albeit under different names, his clearance can only take him so far. One would expect being privy to the asset would open more doors, but nope. Clint sighs and soldiers on.

~

2000

He's stuck in December of 2000 for months as far as he can tell, unable to figure out what he's supposed to do. They're in Paris, of all things, the current base a lot more animated than the rest, and Clint has a chance to interact with other agents.

Out of boredom, he starts spreading rumors about himself. Well, his younger self that right about this time is unknowingly rampaging through the ranks of HYDRA assets and operatives. It takes a few tries, but he learns how to spread the rumors the fastest. Each time, he waits until 2001 rolls around to see if they'll send the Soldier after him.

The stone transports him when he tests the effects of his work by wearing the mask and making a tech pee himself in fear.

~

2004

Clint shoots Brock Rumlow in the forehead twenty eight times just for the sake of it.

In the meantime, he discovers that HYDRA suspects Steve Rogers to still be alive somewhere in the arctic ice, where he crashed the Valkyrie. It makes sense, considering James has survived the cryogenic freeze for this long.

He's not surprised to find one of Pierce's inner circle is none other than Obadiah Stane, which leads him to more information into the supersoldier serum research.

As far as Clint can gather, the head researcher on the HYDRA side is pushing to restart the search for Steve Rogers' body in order to either study it if he'd dead, or turn him if he isn't. Stane, on the other hand, opposes this. He even has a plan to keep the entire world from finding the Valkyrie.

Clint can't figure out what Stane's end game is, but he makes sure the researcher dies, sending a silent apology to Steve and Tony. This is how history happened, anyway. Cap wasn't found until 2012 and Clint tried, really tried, to make sure Stane dies before he can get Tony tortured, but the loop reset every time he pulled on that trigger.

~

2006

"Happy birthday, Nemo," Clint says as he sits on the ground, leaning a shoulder into the cryo chamber. "I guess it's not yours, but Bucky's."

Clint sighs and wraps the blanket tighter around himself, even though he doesn't need it. Doesn't even need sleep.

He feels like he's made of nothingness.

It's been three days since the last reset and Clint's taking a break from trying to figure everything out.

He fishes out the copy of 'Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea' he managed to get his paws on earlier and carefully opens it.

"The year one thousand eight hundred and sixty six," Clint starts, "was signalised by a remarkable incident..."

He reads out loud, hours upon hours. His voice never loses clarity, James never loses stillness on the other side of the glass. Clint's heart pangs with the closeness, hurts with being unable to touch. He's been near James for what feels like years now, yet he's only been able to brush against him twice.

He wonders if he'll ever get back to the Nemo he knows, the one that is sitting in that containment cell in the basement of the cabin.

Home.

He misses Nat and his bow.

Misses the others, as well. In the brief time he spent with the Avengers between the hole in the sky closing and Thor's departure with Loki, Clint registered them as kindred spirits and somewhat latched onto them. Not like he did with Nat, no, but more than he ever did with other SHIELD agents. The Avengers are all fucked up and damaged in their own way and Clint finds them beautiful.

He got to know them better after he returned from his self-imposed isolation, after the nightmares tapered down, after he stopped waking up with weapons at the ready.

He got to know Tony around his heart surgery and spend an increasing amount of time with Pepper who kept locking herself in concrete fireproof rooms. Nat's been there, too. Tony couldn't get rid of the arc reactor in his chest, although his surgeons removed most of the shrapnel around his heart, but he did manage to stabilize the Extremis serum rampaging through Pepper's body.

Clint got to spend time with Bruce after that, when Tony insisted to build ridiculous arrows and improve Nat's weaponry. That connection happened on a whole different level. Shared childhood experiences brought both of them to this point, and Clint considers himself lucky to have met Nemo when he did.

Thor was... an experience. He's otherworldly indeed, not just in origin. Sometimes Clint looks at him and it feels like Thor is gliding through slices of reality, like he doesn't belong here. His skin shimmers, as if trying to escape perception, his being seems to vibrate minutely. It sends tendrils of something cold up Clint's spine, but it's not a bad sensation. Clint can't really imagine being alive for thousands of years. Although, if this time jumping thing doesn't stop, he might find out for himself.

And then there's Steve. Clint lets out a small sigh as he looks up at Nemo's face inside the chamber.

Steve is angry and bruised, deep inside. He's unhappy, alone. Nat had been trying to break through his walls, but he wasn't budging. Before Washington and after Fury dragged Clint out back into civilization, Steve joined him and Nat on missions. He is efficient, ruthless, competent.

Clint closes his eyes, resting his temple against the glass. If Steve felt the absence of his friend even as a fraction of how Clint felt the separation from Nemo, then it explains the hard shell around Steve. He'd be lying if he didn't admit to be a little worried about disappointing Steve by keeping James a secret. However, Clint has accepted the inevitability of losing Steve's respect and trust and friendship. During their search for the scepter, every time he met with Steve before rushing into another HYDRA base, he wondered how would he fare if their places were reversed. If the friend Clint would desperately search for was kept away from him.

"You should meet with him, you know," he tells the slumbering Soldier. "Just so he can see you're safe. It's eating away at him not knowing."

But James doesn't answer because James isn't here and Clint curls up tighter into himself.

~

2009

Sitwell is debriefing a strike team about a situation in Odessa, unaware of the existence of the Winter Soldier. Clint, under the cover of the current handler, is there to take notes on transport. He kills Sitwell and the entire team in fourteen different ways before he gets bored.

Turns out that the stone brought him here to save Nat's life.

And he shakes for days on end until he finally succeeds, by convincing the strike team leader to let him join the Soldier on that ledge, for observation and evaluation during missions. It's in the system, mandated by the research division, because of course Clint put the order in there.

What Clint actually does in the field is talk to Nemo. Talk and talk and convince. For the first time in what feels like forever, he holds Nemo's hand.

But this mission isn't long enough to bring the James he knows to the surface. They pack him up and move him to Budapest. Clint gets transported elsewhere while on route, before he manages to find out more about the base there.

~

2012

Clint runs his fingertips on the glass, tracing the lines of Nemo's face. He's jumping closer and closer to his present and he squirms in anticipation, impatient to get back home.

He's been counting the resets and adding up the days and hours spent in each. So far, his rough estimate is at around three years. James told him that for him it feels like less than a year has passed since he met Clint in 1997. Three times that is a good guess, with all the repetitions. Perhaps even four, but that number makes Clint shudder worse than three.

He yearns for his life. For Nat and Nemo and even the search for that fucking scepter.

It takes everything he has not to try stopping himself from taking the Tesseract assignment. It wouldn't work anyway, given how he can't actually do anything. He's been wondering at times if maybe these events that he 'fixes' are, in actuality, simulations built by the green gem in order to... what? Teach him a lesson? Show him James' suffering?

Clint's can't tell. For sanity's sake, he assumes it's real and not a deranged construct of a primordial weapon.

~

2014

This is it. Tomorrow, the Winter Soldier will be sent to assassinate Fury. They're in the bank vault in DC as Clint watches the preparations. Rumlow is there and so are the two techs they extracted information from back in Clint's past. Or his perception of his past.

It's still weird, for Clint, to stand in front of people that already know him. Like Sitwell. Or Rumlow and his strike team. It's weird to not be recognized, but truth be told, he can barely acknowledge it's his own face in the mirror. As if his eyes refuse to see what's there. Instead, they slide away, letting Clint to fill the gaps. There was a book Nat told him about once, on how the brain manages to estimate incomplete information. So maybe Clint is a literal anomaly, imperceivable, something the human mind can't comprehend, so those looking at him believe they're seeing someone else.

It would be an awesome superpower, if Clint wanted one.

Right now he just wants to go home.

Clint looks around the space, trying to figure out why he's here. He finds his answer only after the Soldier returns from his encounter with Steve.

A tech is working on the arm as Nemo sits in the chair. His flesh hand is flexing, tremors running through his fingers. He lashes out at everyone coming closer, eyes distant but not vacant. He's seeing things. Watching history happening somewhere in his mind. He did the same in the living room of Clint's safehouse in DC, when he remembered being operated on by Zola.

In the corner of the room, the two techs are whispering to each other, fighting over who should go over there and replace the broken tracker inside the metal arm. Finally, one of them loses and Clint steps closer with him.

Nemo doesn't move, eyes shifting to the sides, but he remains immobile as the tech works, gratitude in his face. Clint is appeased by the knowledge that the man will die at James' hands soon enough. Instead, he focuses on what the guy is doing, remembers the position of the tracker.

Oh, maybe... Clint took another one of these out of James' back. This is a new addition, there wasn't any tracker inside the arm, nothing about them in the medical files either. So it must be a recent order, one given right before Clint transported here to find James already awake.

The wipe that follows after Pierce comes and goes with more manipulation and more orders turns Clint's insides into a ball of hurt. But afterward, he helps with the prep because the tech would rather not come close again.

So it leaves Clint mostly alone with Nemo, gives him an opportunity to whisper in his ear.

"Remember this," Clint tells him, tapping at where two plates connect. "Insert knife blade here to break the tracker. Do this as soon as you are deployed. Information is for your ears only, vital to mission success. Do you understand?"

He has to repeat twice more before Nemo responds in the affirmative.

Next, he tells James about the tracker in his back. Hitting the spot hard enough should short it because this model's shell is not that strong. Clint's seen the specs.

And just as he leans away from Nemo, just as Rumlow walks in with handguns and more men--

The floor shifts under Clint's legs, the room tilts, and Clint sees the walls of his bedroom. There's James' hoodie on the back of a chair, the one he likes to wear to sleep. There's moonlight coming in from the window, the shadow of the forest familiar in the night. There's the smell of James in the air and there's...

Nothing.

Nothing but pain as Clint falls to the ground, the dust of dry earth hitting his knees. His ears burn, his head screams in agony, and all Clint can register is daylight.

Sunshine and grass and a ground that should be floorboards.

He sways and the thing piercing through his ears amplifies, until everything is muted. 

Everything is dark.

~


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone o/  
> Well, you can't say I didn't (subtly) predict this. :D  
> A warning: took liberties with the war front and moved it around, but since this is entirely a work of fiction, it doesn't mean that everything in it has to be as it happened in our history. So there will be inaccuracies, and if that bothers you, just remember this is an alternate universe and things could have been slightly different in another timeline. :)  
> Many thanks to Hraf and Kat who patiently listened to me whine about this chapter. Same to everyone else who encouraged me to keep on writing :)  
> Your feedback is golden and it keeps me writing. Let me know your thoughts! On that topic, I was very surprised by how the previous chapter was received. Entirely unexpected! In a good way :D  
> Thank you for reading & enjoy! Hope everyone has a wonderful weekend there!

He's alone in blackness.

The wind is howling and the world sways. Waves, dark and deep and menacing, push back and forth until Clint feels the strain of his muscles as he stands against the air currents. The tempest is so strong and swirling that it doesn't even feel like he's moving. Instead, immobility embraces him with every bit of intensifying roar of the gale until it hurts his ears more than his skin.

And then, just when it feels like his head is about to be squeezed by the fury, a touch.

It's warm on his cheek.

Cool against his forehead.

The water-- the water is not wet. But soft and scratchy at the same time, like a-- like a bed. And sheets.

Clint gasps, oversensitive as the world takes shape, solidifying around him.

A ceiling. Blur.

A face and soft brown curls.

Blue eyes.

Pain.

Pain through his head from ear to ear. Another gasp, but the air's not enough, not when thunder rolls through his skull, howling and crashing into the pits of his stomach enough to make him nauseous even though he's lying down.

Why-- the-- the-- the implants. And Clint's hands struggle against other hands trying to keep him from reaching behind his ears. He tries to blink the mist away, though perhaps it's water, his voice unheard as he explains.

The face flutters away, but the touch lingers on a shoulder. His fingers shake and tremble and refuse to cooperate under the crushing weight of the howling in his ears, but finally. Finally, he finds the switches and presses.

Waits an eternity... then silence.

Tension drains suddenly from his body, like a cord snapping instead of being released, but the sound is gone.

There was a point, Clint recalls as he measures his inhales, when he forgot to recalibrate the damn things. It got like this, overloaded with sensation until his head hurt for days on end. It's why he doesn't skip, tries to reset the implants as often as he can.

Clint breathes until his chest stops heaving. Until his ears stop ringing from the lack of sound. Until he dares open his eyes again.

It could've been a minute, it could've been hours. There's still light in the room, so no way to be certain.

The ceiling is an off white, the walls are-- it looks like he's in a museum. Or an antiquities shop.

The face from before comes into his line of sight, mouth moving. Not speaking English, it seems, because Clint can't make out the words, but the lips, thin and delicate, move with the ease of speech that's ingrained through the years. The woman is worried, eyebrows knitted on her forehead above a long nose and narrow chin. She looks gaunter than she should be, wearing a faded green dress that make her eyes stand out, even though it looks like something grandma used to wear.

Clint shakes his head, pointing at his ears. The room doesn't spin with the motion, and that's a good a sign. Maybe his ears aren't fucked.

She blinks, then her mouth snaps shut, followed shortly by a nod. Clint watches her as she moves away toward a desk under a window to pull out a drawer. Maybe she's an actress in costume. Maybe Clint got thrown in a theater somewhere. Or a movie set. Definitely not in Kansas anymore. Or upstate New York as it were. He looks around, taking stock of himself and the space. His boots are off his feet, but he still has his pants and t-shirt. The tac vest and knife are stacked on a chair to the side. Nothing really hurts, even though there's an ache running through his entire body. This must be what pasta feels like when overcooked.

She returns quickly, holds out a newspaper page, sideways, pointing at words written on the edge of the print and Clint lifts himself gingerly to sit on the mattress.

Looks like... German?

But.

Clint snatches the sheet.

Right there, in small letters, above the large title of the day, it's the date. November 2nd 1942.

It must be a prop, there's no other explanation. When he looks up, the woman is regarding him with worry, head tilted. She's not trying to speak to him, although she blinks carefully, trying to gauge something off his face. Smart. Clint offers her a smile, but his lips wobble and it crumbles. The woman taps her fingers on her cheek in thought. They're long and thin, worked but not uncared for. Her eyes widen with an idea and she holds up a palm before rushing out of the room.

Clint drags his feet on the wooden floors, stands up on trembling legs, and manages to stumble toward the window. The curtains are translucent, intricately woven in thin white thread. Outside, the sky is gray over a stone courtyard. Ahead, there's a one story building. Clint can't tell how tall is the one he's in right now, but he's definitely one floor off the ground. To the right there are trees, while a wooden fence cuts off the view to the left.

Motion at the corner of his eye startles Clint, but he manages not to lounge at his perceived attacker when he sees the woman standing there. She looks about forty. Maybe less. And she's holding a stack of... oh. So smart. Dictionaries.

He tries a smile again and this time he must be successful, because she smiles back. Clint picks the German-English dictionary from the selection, then hands it over after she places the rest aside.

She opens it at a word that translates as 'doctor,' pointing at his ears, but Clint shakes his head. It seems that she's also stubborn, because she keeps poking the page and Clint keeps shaking his head. After a while, she finally sighs, clear in the way her shoulders slump, even though Clint can't hear it.

The floor vibrates and Clint waits for it to tilt, a precursor of a jump. But nothing happens, except the feeling increases. It must be something loud.

A hand wave catches his attention, the woman pointing at another word.

War.

Then tank.

Of course. It's 1942. Clint's hand grabs the tag through his t-shirt of its own accord, while the woman turns her head and says something toward the hallway. A few seconds pass, then, against her apparent displeasure, the door is pushed open and two heads pop in. The kids, a boy and a girl, look a lot like her, somewhere between twelve and fourteen. Maybe less.

He's tired, the tag cold. Or at least not hot as it got when Clint was jumping around through loops. He rubs at his forehead.

A hand on his elbow actually keeps him from swaying on his feet, and he lets her lead him to back to the bed. She writes again, while the kids shuffle closer with curiosity.

Clara. Lukas. Anja.

Clint waves at them, then extends his hands for the pencil and the newspaper.

He is... he is not Clint. Not here. Caution is advised, anyway.

So he writes exactly who he is. Nobody. Nemo.

~

1942

Clint can't believe it. He is in Austria, near the Italian border, in the middle of the second World War.

Why the hell is he here? It makes no sense. Clint grimaces at the green stone in his palm before sliding the tag closed around it. It's been dim since he got here a week back. Completely lacking any sort of glow or heat. Looks like a piece of cheap glass more than an infinity stone.

From what he managed to communicate with Clara, he figured a few things. For one, her husband was killed on the front. He was a school teacher, hence the shelves stacked with books in the study. Second, he's in a small town and Clara owns the local watering hole, although not many customers wonder by these days. Most don't even pay with money, since Clara will take food. Meat is scarce.

Most things are scarce, except maybe for the impressive amount of beer stock Clara still has in the cellar underneath the courtyard. Thing is, her house is just a couple of minutes off a major crossroad, and before the war they used to get so many people there, she had to hire three servers on the busy days. Her brother in law, who helped her with the bar, went to fight along with her husband. Died there as well.

And now Clint finds himself a protector of the brew. He snorts at himself. The two guys with wooden bats coming for the widow didn't expect to find Clint there.

Motion at his side attracts his attention. Clara is looking at him with the same mix of wariness and gratitude that she's been sporting since Clint sent those two packing. There's nothing to it. She should be scared, Clint is dangerous.

Right, the dictionary. She points at 'cousin' then at Clint.

Well, they could say they're related. Her hair is brown, but a soft kind of hue, Clint's is blond, but a darker shade, while their eyes are light in color. Anja looks a little like Clint if he's being critical here. So yeah, it's plausible, and he nods with a smile.

Clara claps her hands once, then ushers him downstairs.

They have steak. Might be pork. Looks good, smells good, even though it's small... aw, fuck. Clara sets the stake on Clint's plate, then fills the other three with potatoes and two carrots.

No. That's not-- he cuts it in half, and gives the bits to the kids.

Clara cries and Lukas stops glaring at Clint.

~

Rumors pass around quickly in a small town. Clint, or actually Nemo is Clara's cousin from Innsbruck who got caught in Italy when the war started. Now he's here and Clint stands menacing behind them whenever he feels like someone throws stinky looks her way. He refused to take her bedroom and is now the sole tenant of the attic room above the bar. Through the back, up the stairs, past the hallway there, and he's in a small room with a narrow bed in a corner, a desk in the other, a chair and a wardrobe filled with the late Jacob's clothes.

Clint watches snow fall on the skylight as he lies on the lumpy mattress, a fire keeping the place warm in the stove.

Tomorrow is New Year's and he has no idea what he's doing here. From what he's seen in Clara's family photos, his three hosts don't seem to be related to anyone Clint knows.

He has thought about trying to make his way to the States, but if the stone wanted him here, there must be a reason. Also, there's a pretty violent war out there. Which leads him to his second option. Joining the fight. With his skill, he could provide assistance, make a difference. But that's the very thing that's holding him back. What if he changes the past?

Because, unlike the loops, he is now very much alive. His hair is growing, his body needs sustenance, he can get hurt. Clint shakes his head at the bruise he managed to give himself while cutting wood.

And it dawns on him, how hopeless this is. How lost and alone and ripped out of his own life. Clint curls up on his side, eyes screwed shut as tightly as he can.

Nobody, indeed.

The night passes slowly. By dawn, Clint is dry of everything that has accumulated, unchecked. Every memory of James in cryo, every bit of pain on his face. Every single tear that his body didn't produce while he was stuck in the loops. All the emotions that he now realizes he had felt as though through cotton, muffled and distant.

He breaks apart.

And then he drags himself out into the snow under the violet-gray of winter dawn, takes a deep breath.

He needs time to process the past four years. Needs the quiet. Might as well make the most of his time here.

~

1943

It's February and Clint is restless. He's been writing down, in code of course, everything he recalls about his time in the loops. The more detail the better, before he starts forgetting things. He even found the perfect hiding spot for the notebooks, down in the cellar.

Right now, though, he needs a break and he misses talking, misses hearing voices, and music.

So one evening he sits on the floor, back against his bed, and feels around for the switches. He'd try one implant first, but that's actually more dangerous than turning them both on at the same time. Clint had spent long hours going over security protocols with Tony while designing these things. Now the implants are connected in such a way that no outsider would be able to take advantage of the tech.

With a deep breath, he presses, counts.

The familiar rumble of the startup makes its way into Clint's perception. If a high toned pulse follows, then all is fine. If not-- Clint grimaces.

There it is! Clint's never been more happy about the fucking sound brain scratching sound.

He waits for his ears to adjust. For his brain to register the new information.

The fire crackles in the stove. A dog barks somewhere nearby.

Clint grins.

~

With a little trial and error, Clint finds that if he keeps the aids off for at least sixteen hours each day, then he can turn them on the rest of the time without them overloading to the point of painful.

~

Anja jumps with a shout and Clint high fives her. He's been teaching the kids things. Like how to defend themselves, how to kick and bite and where to hit bigger opponents. He's been showing them weapons, too; Clara's displeasure only lasted five minutes before she saw the merit in this. Lukas likes the staff and Anja likes the bow. She just hit her target dead center for the first time.

Spring is already coming to end, giving way to the hotter days of summer, while Clint's nights are less riddled with memories of pain and nightmares of James' suffering.

He misses home, though, much more than before. Misses everything and everyone terribly, but the stone is unresponsive, no matter how much Clint begs it to take him back.

~

By the end of September Clint has finished writing down his notes and American troops are settling down in an increasingly larger camp a few clicks down the road. Clint's knowledge of English comes in handy when soldiers on leave make their way into the town and thus the bar.

It doesn't get crowded, though, not really, because there's a couple more locations where guys like to visit and Clara's place is farther off than those. On the other side of the camp, Clara tells him, there's an Italian with an uvo stock. Clint is surprised how well he manages to communicate with her even though he doesn't know a lick of German and she doesn't speak a word of English.

~

There's a guy from Iowa, of all places, complaining about the corn. Clint commiserates internally, because he's not supposed to be an American in Austria in the middle of World War II. He's even developed a slight accent to cover his origins. It's working so far.

Clint serves the guy another beer, then turns to where he's seen someone new occupying the stool at the far end of the bar. Tonight is relatively quiet, just a few customers, except for a rowdy group that seems in a hurry to get drunk and go. Clara's not here for a change because clothes need to be sown. The kids are growing fast.

"What can I get you?" he asks as he makes his way over to the corner. "We have beer and beer."

Shoulders shake lightly with laughter while the man lifts his head.

His smile is bright... and Clint's heart stills in his chest.

James.

~

It's not actually James, Clint has to remind himself. This is Bucky Barnes.

His short hair frames his young features, and his face is a lot more open, even though there's already tightness around his eyes. He's seen battle, then.

Clint finds himself gravitating toward him every time there's a lull in orders. They've been talking about New York, about Bucky's mother and sister and Steve. About home and how both of them miss it. They miss many things, music most of all. There isn't any over here, except for the radio, but that one's in the big house for Clara and the kids.

"Haven't held hands with anyone in a long time," Bucky says, "unless you count a pistol. They're good at it, but a little on the cold side."

Clint laughs, tipping his face down to hide it behind his long hair. It's grown quite a bit, falling over his shoulders. He hasn't cut it, wary of disturbing history or being caught in a photograph. He even found a pair of glasses in the attic, ones with lenses that are not actually prescription. A leftover from Jacob's mother who liked wearing them for fashion. But Clint now wears them to be as unrecognizable as possible.

Bucky looks at his own hand as it rests on the wooden surface of the counter with a sort of wistfulness that is bound to soon turn into sorrow, and Clint's heart lurches in his chest. He glances around, makes sure the group of soldiers at the other end of the room are not paying attention, and he gives Bucky's hand a quick squeeze.

It's the least he can do.

It's also fortunate that he is called away as soon as he steps back, because he'd much rather cling to Bucky's hand than dish out refills, but he can't. Not here, in Austria, in the middle of the war.

Still, after serving another round and getting the bar top as clean as it will get, he finds himself drifting toward Bucky again.

"Say," Bucky starts, "what's your name?"

Clint pushes his glasses into place as he considers this. He sneaks a peek at Bucky from the corner of his eye.

He's going to mess up everything, but he can't not reply.

"They call me Nemo," he says carefully.

Bucky's face lights up with a grin. It's from his favorite book, Clint knows, and he stifles his own smile at that.

"Do you like dancing, Nemo?"

"Depends on the dance," he returns.

Bucky downs his drink and asks for water. Clint raises an eyebrow at him, but he complies with the request.

"Haven't danced with anyone in a while," Bucky says as he wraps his fingers around the glass.

Clint's heart skips a beat because that's an invitation-- it couldn't be, could it? No, he's imagining things, and he shakes his head at himself. But just as he turns away, he catches it.

A glimpse of disappointment.

Fuck.

"Place usually clears by midnight," he says as he walks back. "Stay."

Bucky smiles, a sweet secret thing, with a sort of contentment that fills Clint's stomach with butterflies.

What is Clint even doing... he's never... Aw, hell.

~

With a deep breath, Clint places the broom aside while Bucky waits. His tie is loose, cap under his arm, coat hanging open. He's helped Clint put away the chairs and the glasses before Clint decided to drag this on by sweeping some of the dirt that the soldiers brought in. He washes his hands, washes his face, too, before turning to Bucky.

"Do I get a dance now?" Bucky asks as Clint approaches.

"Upstairs," Clint says. His heart rabbits in his chest.

Clint leads the way, their trip through the back and up into the small room in the attic silent save for their footfalls. Clint counts himself lucky that his implants are still good for a few more hours.

He busies himself with lighting the lamp on the desk and adding wood to the fire, while Bucky sets his cap down and takes off his coat. He's never needed much light up here, and now the space is bathed in the sort of orange shade that invites to intimacy. With a swallow, he turns, walks over to Bucky.

"There's no music," Bucky whispers, but his hands are already settling on Clint's shoulders.

Clint lets his arms snake around Bucky's middle with a smirk.

"We don't need music," he says, but he still hums.

The only song that comes to mind right now is, ironically, Hurt, because if Clint does what he's about to, then there's no going back. No more ignoring it. No more pretending.

"How do you dance to this?" Bucky asks.

"Like this," Clint says, briefly interrupting his off-key humming.

Bucky doesn't seem to mind. He shifts closer easily when Clint presses them together, leans his forehead onto Clint's as Clint turns them slowly.

And time stands still.

There's a sort of welcoming warmth that passes through Clint at this closeness. It's different than what he has with James. Not necessarily better, he yearns for James something fierce. But in Bucky's arms he has to admit, Clint's been holding back with James. It wasn't James the cold one, no. It was Clint himself.

"Whoa," Bucky breathes, and the air tickles at Clint's lips. "Your eyes..."

Clint blinks. Oh, he left the glasses downstairs. He tries to duck his head to hide his heating cheeks, the motion halted when Bucky pushes his chin up. His inhale trembles, but he lets Bucky look. He's rewarded with a growing smile that fills Clint chest with tightness.

"Your smile is mesmerizing," Clint whispers.

Bucky's lips quirk into a flashing grin, before he leans in.

He's right there, waiting. Offering.

Clint takes.

His lips are hot and chapped. Bucky's breath hitches, Clint's fingers press tightly into Bucky's back, and the world spins. They move slowly, barely shifting in the press of their mouth, a soft caress more than a kiss.

Clint loves it. He even--

He pulls away, unable to stop the matching grin blooming on his face. Clint sways them while Bucky buries his face against his shoulder.

Seconds tick in silence, the hug tightening until Clint's hand finds its way into the short hair at Bucky's nape. He caresses the skin there, rubbing softly, just like he's done to James before. To Bucky's future self. His throat closes and he has to swallow it away, pushing aside thoughts of what Bucky's life is going to be. He'd rather focus on right now and right here and giving Bucky reasons to smile.

"This is gonna sound crazy," Bucky says, "but I haven't done anything like this before."

"Kiss?" Clint asks.

"No, but--" Bucky presses his lips against Clint's throat. "More."

Oh. A sweet pang travels through Clint's chest. "Girls?"

The headshake he receives is unmistakable. Well, Clint can understand it. He's had a total of three kisses in his entire life, Bucky included. One was Jeannie, the acrobat, in the circus, sloppy and quick and overshadowed by their teenaged fumble behind the big tent. A month after that, Clint was meeting Nemo and his life was over. He kissed Nat later because they were both curious about it and trusted no one else.

Now he's here, with Bucky, and he draws air slowly. "Me neither," he says.

Bucky straightens suddenly, looks at Clint with raised eyebrows. "Really? But--"

"I'm so old, right?"

"No, you're beautiful."

Clint almost chokes on his own spit, but he saves himself the awkwardness. His cheeks, though, they must be entirely too red right now. Bucky's mouth half lifts with smugness before his hand cups Clint's jaw, a thumb tracing over Clint's cheekbone, and Clint rolls his eyes at him.

A sweet, too short peck follows, before Bucky leans back, but he doesn't let go of Clint.

"I've heard about what fellas do," Bucky offers, his own neck turning pink.

In all fairness, Clint had watched his share of pron and read quite a lot about the mechanics of things. He likes to be prepared, do his research, know what to expect if ever faced with the situation in the field. This is not the field, but he has the knowledge, so he winks.

"I think we can handle it," Clint says.

The light in Bucky's eyes turns warmer, the corners of his eyes crinkling with the small smile he gives Clint.

"Why me?" Clint's mouth asks without his input, the words out there before he can stop them.

Bucky raises an eyebrow, tilts his head as he regards Clint for long moments. "I was gonna joke, but..." He swallows visibly, his throat bobbing as he does. "There's something about you. It's calling me and I wanna have it, you know?"

Yeah, Clint knows. He nods. He pulls Bucky closer to press a kiss on the corner of his mouth. "You can have it," he whispers and Bucky hides his face against Clint's neck again.

So he can blush, too. Clint closes his eyes.

"Why now?"

Bucky's grip tightens even more around Clint, fingertips digging into Clint's back.

"I'll die," he rasps. "Tomorrow, I'll die."

And Clint shudders.

~


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone  
> Hope you're all having a great weekend. Here we continue with Clint's foray into the past. Will he ever get home? *drumroll*  
> Many thanks to Hraf and Kat for the support and the reads, they are the true heroes of this story! Give them the cookies.  
> Feedback much appreciated, it keeps me writing :)  
> Enjoy! o/

1943

The room is chilly and Clint's skin is raised in goosebumps, but he doesn't want to get dressed, not just yet. He's lying on his back on the narrow bed, a leg resting against the floor, while Bucky, just as unclothed, rests on his side crammed between Clint's body and the wall. He's leaning his head on his palm as he watches Clint, fingers running slowly over Clint's front, up and down his arms. Good thing Clint's been wearing a gauze wrapped around his forearm to make sure the tattoo is not accidentally seen.

"What happened here?" Bucky asks as he taps at the bandage.

"Cut myself," Clint says.

"Hm, you're covered in scars," Bucky comments in lieu of an answer, fingers tracing a knife wound below his ribs. It was superficial, but because Clint and Nat were out of medical reach in the depths of the Siberian frosty landscape, it scarred.

"Yeah, comes with the job."

"Are you a soldier?"

Clint blinks. He is and he isn't. He could lie, but he doesn't want to, so he chooses vagueness. "Of a sort," he says and Bucky regards him pensively for a few seconds.

"What about the ones on your back?"

A half sigh, half huff of laughter travels out of Clint's throat. Figures, this is where James comes from. He catches Bucky's hand and places a peck on the tips of his fingers.

"When I was a boy," Clint says, "I was trained to be a sniper. Those are from then, from when I missed my shot."

It's not the truth, but it's the best Clint can do without lying.

"Isn't that too young?" Bucky returns, eyebrows raised, and Clint can see disapproval in his eyes.

Fuck, he's so expressive, and it twists at Clint's insides how much of it James has lost.

"It was the card I was dealt," Clint offers.

Bucky considers this, examining, but then he nods, understanding. "Do you like it?" At Clint's questioning look he adds, "being a sniper."

"Yeah." Clint does. He is the calmest when he takes aim, and each breath used to make him feel closer to Nemo. "It's all about control," he says, smiling at Bucky's piqued interest. "Imagine you're alone, nothing between you and the enemy but your own heartbeat. It's the most peaceful thing I've ever experienced, despite the bloodbaths."

An agreeing grimace flashes on Bucky's face before his raises his eyebrows. "I could use a little peace. Maybe I'll give it a try."

A chuckle leaves Clint's lips unabated when the implications of this dawn on him. If Bucky became a sniper because of Clint--

"You don't think I can do it?" Bucky asks, a little peeved. Wow, that is the exact face Steve makes when Tony challenges him. Wow.

"Actually, I think you can," Clint returns with a wink. "I was just thinking how focused you were earlier," he smirks.

Bucky ducks his head with a snicker and Clint squirms down the bed until he can catch his lips. Clint never really entertained the idea of kissing James. It seemed futile and painful to go there when he knew he had no chance. Now, though, he can't stop. Bucky's lips are James' lips and Clint can't have enough of them. It's going to hurt like a bitch when Bucky leaves, but... he's not going to get another taste, so he should make the best of it now.

It's slow, and gentle, and soothing something inside of Clint's chest in a way he never imagined. He wonders what would it be like with James--and immediately shakes his head, gasping. No, not thinking of that right now.

Bucky pecks at his temple before he lays down, head half resting on his bent arm, half on Clint's shoulder. Silence stretches warmly around them, despite the chill of the cold night drifting in from the crack under the door. Clint catches his breath while trying to chase away thoughts of James. It's not fair to Bucky.

"Your fingers are very talented," Bucky says as he runs his palm over Clint's knuckles, a smile playing on his lips.

It looks so much like Ja--"Wanna do more?" Clint asks, forcing his attention on Bucky.

It earns him a half sad look instead of the enthusiasm of earlier.

"I don't think you should," Bucky says and Clint raises his eyebrows. "You're in love with someone," Bucky explains.

Clint stills. "How do you know?" he breathes, not wanting to either confirm or deny, but judging by the look on Bucky's face, that's all the answer he needed.

"I understand love, somehow, dunno why," Bucky says, his warm smile coming back. Clint matches it and it widens. Bucky's not upset, then.

"Have you ever been in love?"

"No, but I was sweet on some," Bucky says.

He keeps smiling, but it's inward this time, perhaps with the memories. He runs his fingers up Clint's chest, then traces the side of Clint's jaw. Like he's memorizing the shapes, and Clint shivers with the thought.

"Do I remind you of him?" Bucky whispers.

"How do you know it's a he," Clint says instead of answering, causing Bucky to do a half roll with his eyes. Right, who is Clint kidding. He lets out a long exhale. "Yeah," Clint admits. "You look like him, but you're not very much alike."

One of Bucky's eyebrows lifts questioningly. "Then why me?"

Clint has to smile at his own question being returned, but then he remembers why he did it in the first place. Not for a replacement of James, but for Bucky himself, and it sobers him up.

"I guess I understand loneliness," he breathes, letting his hand caress the side of Bucky's face. "You look lonely."

Bucky closes his eyes at this, throat bobbing as he swallows, and Clint lets him feel while his own fingers return to that familiar gesture of rubbing the back of James' neck. Bucky's neck. Clint adds a peck to his forehead, enjoying the way Bucky relaxes next to him. Actually, Clint isn't feeling the least bit guilty. This doesn't feel like cheating, because Bucky is still a part of James. Giving Bucky a happy night now means giving James a chance at a warm memory later. Something loving instead of violent, something gentle instead of painful. And if, by the grace of fortune, it brings Clint closer to James... Clint inhales, pushing the thought away, then tips Bucky's face up to kiss his lips.

Bucky huffs with a small laugh as they break apart. "Kinda feel like I stole something from the fella," he says, leaning up on an elbow again.

"Nah," Clint counters, "I'll never see him again." It earns him a frown and Clint purses his lips, but the increasing worry on Bucky's face makes him explain further. "I'm far from everyone I know, got no way back home. I'll never--"

"You'll get back," Bucky interrupts.

"I don't--"

"You'll get back to him," Bucky insists.

Clint presses his lips together, something sharp stinging behind his eyelids. But he blinks it off, concentrating on the bitter tint in Bucky's eyes. This is the face of someone desperately hanging onto hope when there's nothing left, then trying to spark it in another, that perhaps it catches on. Clint knows this all too well, and he returns it in kind.

"Just like you won't die," he says.

Bucky looks away from Clint, eyes hooded by his long lashes. "Yes, I will."

Clint lifts himself to sit, pushing Bucky up with him. He pulls the blanket around them, considering. James told him how being on Zola's table felt like death to him, but he had no idea Bucky had the sensation ingrained even before that.

"Why do you think you'll die?" Clint asks. "You're not--"

"Because," Bucky says, still not looking at Clint, "I've had this--this--for months. It's not something I'll escape, I'm sure." His eyebrows knit with anguish and Clint's heart lurches in his chest. "Tomorrow they're sending my battalion out to the worst trenches. Fellas are telling stories, how nobody survives. 'm gonna die there," Bucky gasps, eyes glazing with wetness, "never gonna see Ma again. Never gonna see anyon--"

"Hey," Clint breathes, wrapping his arms around Bucky and pulling him close. "Shh," he croons, swaying them lightly against Bucky's sharp inhales.

He's not crying, but shivering with it, like he already dried out his tears. Clint kisses his face, his forehead, his shoulders. Kisses his lips and caresses his cheeks, places pecks on his eyelids as they flutter closed while Bucky's breathing evens out to a soft rasp.

"You know what's worst?" Bucky croaks and Clint hums in question. "I'm convinced I'll be forgotten. There's this book, about a captain called Nemo, do you know it?"

"Yeah," Clint nods.

"He's remembered by those he helped, even though the world cast him into oblivion," Bucky says, finally looking at Clint. "I'll be forgotten by everyone."

He sounds so resigned, it rips Clint at the seams.

Bucky huffs, mostly to himself, gaze drifting down at his hands. "When I was a kid I wanted to live like Nemo, fight for the oppressed. 's why I joined the army," he says quietly. "But I don't think I'll--"

He closes his eyes and Clint places both palms on the sides of his face, making Bucky look at him again.

"I'll remember you," Clint says. "Whatever happens, I will always remember you. I promise."

An inhale, an exhale, shaky and trembling... and then he smiles. He smiles like he's trying to mangle Clint's heart on purpose.

"But you'll live," Clint continues. "You'll survive, believe me."

"Then you have to believe, too, that you're gonna get home."

Anything for you, Clint almost tells him. Instead, he nods and catches his lips again, trying not to think about how Bucky won't be the same ever again.

~

The morning is dull and gray when Clint wakes up against the increasing roar in his ears. With a sigh, he turns off the implants, then lies there staring at the ceiling. Bucky is gone, only his scent lingering behind and the image of his smile.

Something tickles the corner of Clint's eyes and he rubs at the wetness there.

There are many things overlaying Clint's mind right now, most of those feelings that tighten his chest, pang through his heart, and dry his throat. And beneath them all, a sort of contented serenity.

His love.

Hope.

He realizes, now, how he was about to give up on everything before last night. He wasn't aware how close he was to letting resignation claw at him until Bucky made him hope. And now Bucky, this beautiful young man, will die to make room for James. For Nemo.

Is it fair, though?

The world would accept Bucky Barnes in a heartbeat, while James is hunted. Steve is looking for Bucky, not James. Only Clint clings to Nemo. He feels selfish, suddenly. Subjecting Bucky to seven decades of pain is not worth it, not for Clint. All that innocence cannot be lost, all that light doesn't deserve to be tortured out of him.

But there's nothing Clint can do. History has already been written.

So Clint rolls out of bed, stretches his body, and starts his day.

~

Two days later Anja finds him crying over the woodcutting stump and he explains, as best he can, that he's lost someone like her mother lost her father.

Clint is alone, and if it weren't for these three that took him in... he doesn't know how he'd be able to cope.

~

An early frost covers the November landscape. News of a heavy loss on the Allied side has been running through the town for the past few days. They're saying over three hundred soldiers were captured or killed. Clint knows exactly which battle this was, the very same that brought Bucky and the rest of the to-be Howling Commandos to the imprisonment in Zola's camp.

He shivers are he watches the mountains in the distance, toward where Bucky is stuck in a cell.

Twilight soon fades into darkness, but Clint can't move.

He needs...

With shaky fingers he pulls out the tag from under his sweater. Its borrowed warmth seeps back into the skin of Clint's palm, but that's it.

"Please..." he starts. Words elude him, stuck somewhere in the middle of his chest, making his ribs ache from the inside.

The stone remains unresponsive. Unlit.

Just like that, from one inhale to the next, he decides. The stone threw him here, abandoned him. Clint can't stand back while a good man is being torn apart and he wonder what would James want. He saw a glimpse of Bucky back home, just a tiny fraction of those expressive eyes, Clint recalls, when James told him about leaving New York for the front. He didn't realize it then, but now, after meeting Bucky, Clint gets it.

James survived because of Bucky. He never broke, not entirely, not completely, because he started out inherently good.

And Clint can't-- he's willing to take the risk of screwing up the future and everything in it if it means sparing Bucky future pain. He's stuck here, part of himself about to be captured and hurt. Because Bucky is, somehow, a part of Clint. Nemo instilled the moral mantra Clint followed all his life, a code that came from Bucky. Without it, Pierce wouldn't have been able to control James. The wipes wouldn't have worked, obedience wouldn't have been achieved.

Bucky still exists at Nemo's core and Clint is going to save him.

~

The track through the mountains is slow, very slow, even with Clint's training. He needs to keep constant cover, cannot be found out or captured, not when he's this close to Zola's compound.

He got to the front line too late, the 107th already defeated, most of them captured. From there, he managed to slither through the trenches until he got on the other side. From what he recalls of the territory, the camp is somewhere over the peak in front of Clint and he decides to rest for a couple of hours, awkwardly curled up on a tree branch. Below, the forest is silent and Clint turns his thoughts back to Clara and the kids.

He left without a goodbye, just a note of gratitude and-- oh. He forgot the notebooks, back in the cellar. He should've buried them, somewhere where they won't pose a threat if discovered. Clint closes his eyes, wishing them luck, hoping they survive until he returns. His plan is to snatch Bucky away, then go back. Clint's been practicing a speech, calling forth methods of persuasion Nat's taught him over the years because he's pretty sure Bucky won't abandon his duties that easily.

He needs to save Bucky. It's the only way he can save James, who Clint will never see again. By the time 2014 rolls back around, Clint will be long gone, dust and bones beneath the ground. Besides, if the multiverse theory is true and every decision one makes spawns a new timeline, surely there are James' out there that will still exist even after Clint changes Bucky's future.

~

The compound stretches quietly ahead of Clint. He watches for a while, counts guards and their rounds, until he finds a gap to slip through unnoticed. Historical records, and even SHIELD records, did not hold any blueprints of this camp, but if Steve managed to find the prisoners without prior information, Clint's sure he can reach the cells just as quickly. He makes his way through the largest building of the compound, up catwalks and out of sight. As he turns into a series of intersecting corridors, he comes upon a row of men being brought toward an exit and Clint recognizes Dum Dum Dugan among them.

He takes a deep breath, following the prisoners to their cells while keeping out of sight. He tries not to think about the horrors they've been put through. James told him about this, about the weapons they made, but now, seeing it, seeing the prisoners working to exhaustion, it forms a tight knot in Clint's stomach.

Bucky's not in the cells with the others, so Clint turns and hurries back toward the working stations he passed by earlier. He focuses on his task instead of that niggling thought in the back of his head that keeps insisting he's too late and he should at least release the rest of the prisoners. But Clint's priority is Bucky. Steve will come and rescue the others, Clint tells himself as he avoids a couple of guards ahead. Steve also went in like a bulldozer, according to his own story, and Clint spares a smile at the memory of how he and Nat educated him, that night, on the finer points of stealth in between laughs and slices of pizza.

Soon, he's watching the factory floor from up high as he takes in the space, trying to figure out where the isolation ward is, the part of the building where Zola conducted his experiments. There will be no more Nat and no more Steve after this and Clint's heart lurches in his chest. He hurries through a dark hallway, keeping his attention on every little shadow, every single sound, implants thankfully still cooperating.

A man walks out of a room, short and-- that's Zola! Clint slinks toward the door just as Zola turns a corner ahead. He peeks inside as carefully as he can.

The blood freezes in his veins.

Bucky is strapped on a table in the middle of a large, dark room, right beneath an observation window. On the ceiling, a machine is pointed at his forehead, the tip of a rod connected to a metal plate fixed to the side of his face, from the cheekbone and over the temple. There's blue flowing through the connection, Tesseract blue, and Clint bytes his cheek. It looks too much like the electroshock machine of the chair, too much like the scepter, too much like mindlessness-- Clint chokes.

He aims with his knife, throws, and the machine quiets with a fizzle. There's nobody else in the room, so Clint rushes over, hands shaking over Bucky's trembling body.

He's too late, Clint realizes, when Bucky's mouth starts moving with a mumble. "Ev'rythin's blue."

"Hey, Bucky," Clint starts, "it's Nemo."

"Nemo," Bucky says, his mouth twisting in the beginning of a pained smile. "We're both cyborgs."

A sob travels out of Clint's throat at this glimpse of James just as an explosion shakes the ground. It's not a massive one, but an alarm immediately follows. Clint presses his lips together, pushes the suspended machine away, and works on removing the head piece from Bucky. It's not easy, his fingers too stiff and too loose at the same time, as he tries not to hurt Bucky further. The thing's thankfully not embedded in skin or bone, and once Clint finds the locking mechanism, it's just a matter of picking the lock. Using force is out of the question, lest he wants to cut Bucky's ear off.

He's so preoccupied, he almost misses the footsteps announcing Zola as he runs into the observation room, but Clint ducks in time between two shelves in a dark corner.

The base shakes again, a much louder explosion. Clint's chest burns with hurt and he ignores the sensation before he realizes it's the gem.

The tag is hot again under his clothes and hope swells in Clint.

He can save Bucky. The stone will transport them and-- Zola runs out and Steve runs in.

No.

But Steve rips the straps off of Bucky, helping him off the table. Clint can't move. What does he do? Does he reveal himself? Is this when he fucks up the future? Something green catches his eye as the glow of the time stone permeates through Clint's sweater. Just then, while Steve and Bucky run out, the walls vibrate with enough force to make bricks and shelves fall around Clint.

The self destruct.

Clint scrambles at the stone. The chain gets tangled around his fingers and Clint takes it off, slides open the tag. It's active, indeed, shimmering in a way Clint hasn't seen before in green. No, he's seen it in blue.

"Asshole," Clint grits at the stone. "Why couldn't you let me save him? Why?!"

The light of the gem pulses once and Clint sees himself rushing over to Bucky's side, like ghosts overlaid onto reality.

James looks at his own metal arm, eyes lost.

"Nemo, it's me, you're safe," another ghost of Clint says, walking through Clint himself as he nears James.

"You have heart," James says, but it's not James anymore, green eyes and long dark locks now revealing Loki's face.

On the table, Bucky laughs. "Silly apple."

"A door opens from both sides," Clint tells Fury.

Only... he's saying this to Clint himself, as Clint watches his own face. He's bent down, seeing himself from above, where he hides in a crouch. He's looking up, seeing himself from below, where he's looking down-- Clint's head spins.

The ghosts of others dissipate and Clint stumbles up, tag clutched in his palm. He feels eyes on the back of his head and twists to see himself still crouched down--

He stumbles back.

The ceiling crumbles, bits of cement and stone raining down.

"Clint," James' voice calls and he turns.

James stands there, hair tied back, a smile on his face. His eyes are warm and alive, with a hint of his usual sharpness in them.

"Welcome back."

His feet move without him, but the ghost of James disappears as well and Clint's hand grips at air.

"No," he gasps. "James. Take me back to James," he tells the stone in his closed fist, rays of green making their way out through his fingers.

The light pulses again, the tag throbs with heat, the building shakes once more, and Clint loses his balance. The skin of his hand hurts with the burn, too much to endure, as his legs hit something.

Clint falls back and the tag slips through his fingers.

Clint falls.

~

"Hey," Nat says as she cracks open the door. "You need to come see this."

Clint blinks and Nat frowns.

"Clint? Can you hear me?"

He takes in the room. His bed's right there, James' hoodie on the chair. The apple-shaped rock sits in pieces and dust on the floor near the wall.

"How long have I been gone?" he asks.

"Gone?"

Clint's hands go to his hair. Short. There's no burn on his palm. He's still in tac gear, but his vest is hanging partly open, as if he was about to take it off.

Did he just imagine everything?

"Clint," Nat says, concerned, as she takes a step closer.

"I found the time stone," Clint rasps. "I think."

Nat's eyebrows raise in surprise. "What happened?"

"I went to the past?" Clint says, but it sounds more like a question, even to his own ears. The low shuffling noise that was almost permanent in his implants in Austria is not there anymore.

Movement catches Clint's eyes as Thor stops in the doorway.

"James refuses to leave the cell," he says.

Clint's knees want to give out, but he forces himself to move, to walk, run, through the living room-- he stops in front of the screen displaying a feed from the basement.

The cell door is open, while James sits on the mattress, legs tucked under himself and arms crossed. He's frowning with a glare at the transparent wall.

"How," he starts, but no more words form on his tongue.

"Cognitive recalibration," Nat says as she stops next to him. "I was bringing him some water, he attacked, I hit him hard in the head..." She shrugs and Clint's throat tries to laugh while he snorts at the cognitive recalibration Nat bestowed on him as well.

It's undignified but he doesn't care because James is clearly not a mindless drone anymore and Clint is back home.

He rushes down the stairs, as the ground sway a little in front of him. Clint pushes through, focusing the spinning, the rubble - why is there rubble - while the steps morph into a disjointed mass.

Clint falls.

~


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone o/  
> Thank you for your patience. Work's been busy. So, I know many of you hated me at the end of last chapter... *cough* and might hate me even more now :D Ah, kidding, kidding. Take a look and decide for yourselves! All feedback is appreciated and it keeps me motivated.  
> Many thanks to Tanouska and Kat for listening to me whine about it and providing even more motivation.  
> Enjoy!

Darkness.

Eternal and unending.

Something surrounds him.

Clint tries to blink, but his eyelids refuse to move. There's a soft surface to his left and Clint pats at it until he can force his eyes open. Green. A faded stain that looks like that coffee one when Nat jumped at him from behind the--

Home. He's home. He tries to sit up, but pain shoots through several places on his body, pulling a groan out of him. Just then, Nat's head pops up over the back of the couch and Clint squints at her against the overhead light.

"Wh'appened?"

"You fainted," she says, unimpressed, and the implants hiss lightly, overlapping the sound onto her voice.

"Why?"

Just as the questions leaves his mouth, though, awareness comes back to him. James, the stone, the Soldier and Austria and Bucky...

"Who knows why you do what you do, Barton," Nat comments, rolling her eyes, but there's a worried crease between her eyebrows.

Clint's missed her so much. So much.

So he flails, trying to grip at her, until they're locked in an awkward hug over the back of the sofa, more painful than not, but Clint's home. Nat's home. And James--

"Where's James?" Clint breathes.

"Over here," comes from behind and Clint twists in a way that makes his ribs hurt.

The sight that meets him is as hilarious as it is relieving, pushing a choked laughter out of Clint's throat that turns into a sharp jab at his middle.

"Ow," he mumbles, arm curling itself around the sore spot. "What happened?"

"You fell down the stairs," James says, half glaring at Clint from his place on the floor, cross legged, with his metal arm propped on a foot stool under Thor's hammer.

Fuck. James is here and himself and Clint can't stop grinning, just as he can't stop the water misting over his eyes. James' annoyance is replaced by worry and he tries to shift, but is held back. Nothing's keeping Clint in place though, so he half stumbles half crawls there until he can wrap himself around James.

Who, for some reason, alternates between pushing Clint away and pulling his closer. Clint leans back to look at him. There's a fraction of fear on his face, beside his usual unreadable set, that explains so much.

"Nat," Clint says. "Tell Thor to take it off."

"No," James returns immediately.

He's back to glaring. So much life, yet so little. More than the Soldier had, a lot less than Bucky, and Clint's heart twists for the three of them.

Oh.

Oh, heart. For all his facets. The entirety of Nemo, past and present and dares he hope, future. Clint lets his forehead rest on James' flesh shoulder. "Please," he rasps.

There's a shuffle before Clint feels metal embrace him from the other side. He melts against James, heart pounding in his chest with the realization. He breathes slowly, carefully, dizzy with it, while James' fingers massage his scalp. It feels good.

"I don't think he hit his head," James says.

"Clint," Nat's voice drifts through and Clint makes a sound that might or might not be a word. "Are you ok?"

There is that underlining of worry that Clint definitely doesn't want to hear from her, so he forces himself to speak.

"Yeah, just--just been five years, and I missed you and James and coffee."

"He's fine," Nat comments. "Except for the five year part. You said you found the time stone and it took you to the past?"

Clint shifts his head and pushes his nose against James' neck, causing James to tighten his hold.

"Maybe," he mumbles. James is so warm. "Maybe I'magined. 'mma take another nap--"

Clint is finally home.

~

2014

"So you're not sure," Nat concludes and Clint nods.

The four of them are seated at the kitchen table over the remnants of their breakfast. Clint's been telling them his entire experience, in large lines, from trailing along with the Soldier's pod to being thrown in Austria and almost running into Steve there. He doesn't give them more details, especially not the private kind, not about meeting Bucky, those are for later. But the important bits, the ones that could have shaped the future differently, he tells those.

James has been quiet the whole time, Thor's been listening with a slight frown, while Nat's been asking the questions they all have, including Clint.

"I don't wanna think it might've been the mind stone, but it's a possibility."

"Nobody was here but us," Thor says.

"Unless whoever it was whammied you, too," Clint returns a little too bitterly.

Thor's frown deepens for a moment, his lips moving as if he's trying to pronounce something, but then his eyebrows shoot up his forehead.

"Ah," he says. "I have no recollection of being stricken, but the scepter is a powerful weapon, so there's no assurance."

"My dilemma exactly," Clint mutters, leaning his forehead on his palm.

James' finger hooks onto the edge of Clint's sleeve in support and Clint would like nothing better than be left alone with James for a while. A few months would be ideal. But they have more pressing matters. They need to figure out what happened to Clint and find the scepter and the time stone, if it exists, and track down whoever attacked them in Budapest and-- Clint's exhale turns into a long sigh. That green fucker!

Wait. Clint straightens.

"They give off different signatures," he says.

"Maybe we can measure radiation residue or something," Nat adds, caught by the idea.

"Lady Jane and Dr. Selvig are already working with Bruce, we spoke on the phone earlier," Thor chips in.

"We need to go to New York," Clint finishes.

Next to him, James nods and stands up. "I'll get another blanket, it's cold downstairs."

"What?"

But James is already gone by the time Clint looks back at Nat and Thor. Nat shrugs a shoulder delicately.

"I'll stay with him," she says.

~

The bedroom door closes behind Clint with a click, causing James to look at him in alarm. He hasn't been alone in a room with Clint since Clint woke up yesterday morning, on the floor, in James' arms.

"You don't trust yourself," Clint says.

A beat, and James nods curtly before he resumes pulling the t-shirt over his head. His hair's still wet, dripping onto the fabric, and Clint stares at it until his attention is drawn by the broken pieces of rock now sitting neatly on the dresser.

"Sorry about that," he says, pointing at the destroyed apple-shaped stone.

"It's fine," James says, without meeting Clint's eyes.

"I trust you," Clint returns.

James freezes. "You shouldn't."

With a deep breath, Clint pushes away from the door and closer to James, until he can press their shoulders together. "But I do."

There's an inhale, an exhale, and James hangs his head while his frame relaxes. Not by much, but by enough.

"I'm not leaving here until I can take it out of my head, whatever they put inside."

Clint nods. "Yeah, but you don't have be in the cell. Nat's gonna stay here, just in case."

"More reason to lock me up," James returns, looking at Clint this time, a hard glint in his eyes.

Right. Clint forgot how that felt, wanting to keep others safe from himself. It's why he built the damn thing in the first place, to give him some peace of mind while battling his demons. Who is he to take that ease from James. "Ok," he says with a reassuring smile that feels more bitter than anything right now, but James matches it, a wobbly little thing. "When I come back, Nat and I will go get that file she saw that held the triggers. I hope you'll join us then."

"Too dangerous."

"Just think about it," Clint says and receives a nod in return.

The plan right now is to get to New York for tests, assess the damage, if any - Clint hopes there isn't - and retrieve the notebooks he left in Austria. He's told them about those, and Tony's already working on tracking down the owners of the old pub, perhaps even any remaining survivors. He misses Clara and the kids, too, wants to know what happened to them. He sure hopes they were real and not a figment of his imagination.

~

On their way to New York, Clint lands on a secluded ridge so that Thor can check in with Asgard. He's gone and back in less than an hour, with the promise that Heimdall, the all seeing gatekeeper, will let them know should any information come to light from the vast Asgardian archives. Besides, they're both in agreement that Thor should stay on Earth, in case something else happens, and he drops Thor off at Jane's before making his way to the tower.

"Merida!" Tony waves from across the lab.

"Hi, Clint," Bruce says from much, much closer, and Clint pretends to flinch. It makes Bruce smile.

"Hey," he returns. "Where's everyone?"

"Jane's on a date," Tony says, wiggling his eyebrows.

"Dr. Selvig's asleep," Bruce supplies.

"Capsicle and Birby are off on a stakeout."

Clint raises an eyebrow of his own and Tony rolls his eyes dramatically.

"Don't worry, I gave them a car."

Clint opens his mouth to comment on how Tony's cars are anything but stealthy when Bruce speaks.

"It was an inconspicuous car, I saw it."

"Ok," Clint raises his palms. "Why are they on a steakout?"

"New lead," Tony says. "But about that later, let's take a look at you," and steers Clint to sit in a chair.

Tony grabs a screwdriver, Bruce comes closer with a syringe, and Clint sighs.

"Don't poke me too hard," he mutters.

"Now where's the fun in that?" Tony grins.

~

It's almost dawn when they're done with the tests. They have to wait several hours for the results, but Clint can't sleep, so he serves himself a hefty amount of caffeine from Tony's delightful stock before joining the man on the outer terrace of the penthouse.

Ever since Pepper almost died Tony's been more run down than usual.

"How's Pepper?" Clint asks as he sits on the free deck chair next to Tony.

It earns him a startled look before Tony grimaces at the horizon. There's barely a sliver of lighter blue above the skyline.

"Still at the mansion," Tony rasps. "Still won't come out. Rhodey's with her."

Clint nods slowly. They've been there, Nat more than him, at the Stark mansion right outside the city, isolated in the middle of large stretches of land. Where she can't accidentally burn anything down.

"But the serum's stable."

"By all accounts," Tony breathes. "She wants to wait a few more months."

He sounds so defeated as he lifts a tumbler-- Clint snatches it quickly and sniffs at it.

"It's tea, asshole," Tony grits, but he isn't really upset given the small smile on his face.

Clint flicks his ear. "Why's it in a glass?"

"Looks cooler," Tony returns, eyebrows raised, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"Bruce made you drink tea, didn't he?"

Tony huffs, but the smile is still there. Nat was right when she said they all need to keep a closer eye on Tony. Be his friends. And just like that, Clint is reminded of the five years he's spent away from them.

"We should get Pepper to train with us," he says.

"Like an Avenger?" Tony asks, looking at Clint with surprise.

"Why not?"

A grin blooms on Tony's face. "Think Steve will go for it?"

"He kept you, didn't he?" Clint returns with a chuckle.

"How dare you," Tony says, but he's laughing, pleased.

~

Someone's already delivered breakfast when Clint finds his way into the living room, chilly from the cold air. The elevators ping open and soon Steve's grabbing food and Sam's yawning into his eggs, then Bruce and Tony join them. The whole thing turns into five grown men sitting on the floor eating from takeout containers with their hands because nobody thought to grab some forks. It's how Thor finds them and they all stare at each other in awkward silence before Thor sits down and snatches the first available box.

Clint brings them up to speed and they take a long while to consider the implications of either stones being the culprit. They all lack sleep, though, except for Thor, who insists they should get some rest before continuing. Clint takes him up on that, belly full and body warm, catching up with the fall he had and the general fatigue that's been lingering about him even though all signs of time travel are gone.

There's a knock on the door of the guest bedroom he's using right after he ends the check-in call with Nat and James. He was hoping he wouldn't do this now, though, but he lets Steve in, sits next to him on the edge of the bed.

"You went back there," Steve says, staring at his hands.

"Yes," Clint returns. "But it's not something you want to experience, believe me."

Steve frowns, picking at the edge of his thumbnail. "Maybe I do."

With a sharp inhale, Clint lies back, stares at the ceiling for a bit. "I watched Nat die over a dozen times in one of the loops."

The mattress shifts as Steve matches his position. "I miss people."

Which, whoa, hits Clint right in the gut. "How's the search going?"

"Another dead end," Steve says. "Thought this banker had a connection to HYDRA, but turns out he's just a regular criminal. We'll find it," Steve stresses and oh. He's talking about the scepter.

"I meant your friend," Clint whispers.

Steve closes his eyes under a frown and he rubs at his forehead with the pads of his fingers. "He's disappeared."

"He'll find his way back to you."

It takes a moment, but Steve's eyelids open slowly, revealing a mixture of sorrow and hope so vivid, that Clint has to swallow back the lump in his throat. He's going to talk to James again. Not to meet, not necessarily, but maybe to send Steve a message that he's safe. Shave off some of the worry.

~

By the time Clint wakes in the early afternoon, some of the test results are back and he knows, for sure, that he doesn't have brain damage. He showers and wraps his ribs again. Those aren't broken or cracked either, but lightly bruised and James insisted, so Clint's gonna comply. Tony even checked his hardware and updated his control app. He's got a test scheduled with the ear doc tomorrow, too. Clint scratches at his cheek. He doesn't want to go to that one, but Nat knows about it already. Tony is a huge traitor.

In the meantime, JARVIS has sent him the files on the Austrian family and Clint yawns in his coffee while reading through. Across the kitchen table, Sam is nursing his own drink, something orange and juicy and most likely healthy. He's not very subtle in his watching of Clint, but he isn't a spy. Clint gets the curiosity, they haven't interacted much before, just a couple of times while the Avengers were gearing up and Sam was passing through.

Clint refills his coffee and turns back to the info on his tablet. So Clara's house and the bar were turned into a museum about three decades ago. There's even an itemized list of the artifacts on display. No weird notebooks in code, so Clint turns to the parts about the family. They seem to have sold the house in the 50s and emigrated to the states. JARVIS doesn't have more information on Clara, but he has some on the kids.

Lukas never married, but he did become a skilled mechanic in Boston. Lived with Anja until he passed away in '78. But Anja-- Clint grins at the screen. She had four children and nine grandkids and oh! She's still alive, living in her house in the Boston suburbs.

They were real.

The question now is if Clint was really there with them seventy years ago.

Clint checks the time. If he takes the quinjet, he can be there faster than driving, but there's nowhere to land without causing a media circus. No, there are better options.

"JARVIS, I need one of Tony's cars."

"Of course, agent Barton," JARVIS returns. "The purple one, I assume."

Clint grins. "Nah, the fastest."

Across the table, Sam's eyebrows are raised so far up his forehead, it's almost comical. "He's letting you take his cars."

"Eh, letting is too strong a word," Clint replies, but adds a wink to the joke.

Sam huffs, lifting his hands. "He doesn't even let me use his coffee maker unsupervised."

"He doesn't know you yet," Clint returns. Sam's new and the Avengers don't trust people easily, so Sam needs to be patient. Doesn't mean Clint can't reach out to him, though. "Wanna come with?" he offers and receives a wide smile for it.

"Can I drive?"

"Nope."

"Come on, man. Do it for the birds."

Clint laughs. Yeah, he might end up liking Sam.

~

Anja stares at Clint for long moments before her shaky hands lift to cup the sides of his face.

"Nemo," she whispers.

She knows him and Clint smiles at her. "Yeah, it's me. I'm back."

Anja nods, eyes wide, before releasing him, but only to grip at his hands. She's actually taking this too well. "You're not surprised."

"No," she says, shaking her head. "I understood your code."

Her voice is low and heavily accented, so for a second Clint thinks he's misheard.

"You saw such horrors," she continues. "So much pain."

So she found the notebooks and read them. On the other side of the low wall separating the living room from the dining area, Sam's chatting with Anja's daughter. Maria looks a lot like Clara.

"I'm home now," Clint reassures quietly. "But you shouldn't have read those, they're dangerous."

Anja purses her lips in that familiar way that shows her stubbornness. "You don't worry about me," she lifts a finger to poke him in the chest. "I worry about you."

"You shouldn't," Clint tells her, but doesn't refrain from smiling.

"Yes," Anja counters. "You saved mama, made her strong. We all waited for you to come back. You're home so now I can go tell mama and Lukas you made it."

Clint feels his face fall and he swallows against his dry throat. "What happened to Clara? Was she happy?"

"As happy as a widow can be," Anja returns, patting his cheek. "She went after papa knowing she gave us a future here. Lukas went too young," she continues, shaking her head.

A trembling exhale leaves Clint as he nods. He bring her hands to his lips and kisses her knuckles, which earns him a caress to the side of his face.

Footsteps thunder down the staircase in the hallway, accompanied by a shout. "Mom, I need--"

A boy stops in the doorway, not expecting to see guests there. Maria and Sam approach from the kitchen as the kid shuffles awkwardly on his feet. He's wearing an armguard on his left forearm and holding a bow in his other hand.

"Ah, come here," Anja waves him over. "This is Nikolas," she says when the boy is close enough that she can take his wrist. "He's twelve now and the best at archery. He's going to Olympics."

"Grandma," Nikolas whines, obviously embarrassed. "Coach hasn't announced it yet."

Clint can't stop grinning while Anja tells him how she never stopped practicing, not really. Of course, life gave her ups and downs and bumps, but Clint is humbled by her passion for the bow. They chat for hours, about the war and the past and her children. About Clara and Lukas. About Nemo and how Anja hopes his love is returned and his sadness quenched.

~

He leaves there lighter and heavier at the same time. He has his notebooks back, but he also has knowledge that they survived, they lived full lives, happily. He wasn't there, but he's home to his own family now, even if it's made of broken pieces, even if they don't call it that.

Sam's quiet on their way back, but something has shifted in the way he looks at Clint now. He also keeps staring at the side of Clint's head for minutes at a time.

"What," Clint says when Sam does it again.

He startles, catching himself, and shifts in the passenger seat. Ahead, the road is already dark under the falling night.

"Nothing," Sam murmurs, looking out the side window.

Clint leaves him to his thoughts. If he wants to say something, he'll do it on his own, eventually. Silence settles even thicker than before and Clint presses down on the gas. They make good time, because soon Clint's maneuvering through the downtown traffic, still a little busy even at this time of night.

"I misjudged you," Sam says as they wait at a red light, ten minutes away from the tower.

Well, that's nothing new. "Everybody does," Clint returns. "It's a talent of mine."

Sam smirks with half his mouth, but it's short lived. "I don't do that," he says. "I mean, I try not to, catch it and stop it if I do, y'know?"

Clint nods. Yeah, makes sense. Everybody does it sometimes, unconsciously. It's what people do when they realize it that speaks of their character.

"But for some reason," Sam continues, "I slapped a label on you and didn't even question it."

"What kind of label?"

Sam bites his lip. "The wrong kind," he says.

Ok, Sam doesn't sound pleased about it, and Clint doesn't press. "What about now? What label would you give me?"

There's a long stretch of quiet as Clint makes his way to their destination. They're in the parking lot underneath the tower when Sam turns to him.

"Friend?" he says, too much of a question.

Clint smiles at him, extends a hand and Sam grips it. "Instead of what?" he whispers.

"Competition," Sam says, unknowingly, and startles.

"Samuel," Clint smirks. "She's going to eat you alive."

Sam whines. This is unexpected, though. Clint never knew that he's interested. It requires more exploration, though, getting to know Sam better, check him out. Also, keep him from getting himself killed, because Nat is Nat and she's dangerous. Clint knows first hand, he contributed to making her that way. Sam, though, from the little Clint's already found about him, is an opposite. Pure, relative to their darkness.

"Look," Clint says. "Tread carefully."

A slow nod comes back before Sam slips out of the car.

"Be very patient," he adds as they wait for the elevator.

Sam nods again.

"Buy her some knives."

The doors open and Sam doesn't have time to ask for details on that, because Tony rushes over with a wad of papers.

"It wasn't the mind stone," he says.

Tony keeps talking, but all Clint can hear is the sound of his own heartbeat.

It happened. It was real.

~

Two days later, Clint makes his way inside the cabin. It's late at night and the place is silent. Nat comes out of her bedroom quietly, waves at him before going back, and Clint climbs down the stairs.

Inside the cell James is reading, but he places his book aside when Clint slips in, makes room for Clint to join him on the mattress, backs against the wall. He's already told him about the test results.

"I don't know what it means," Clint starts, stops, but James waits for him. "If I was supposed to go back and fix everything, does this mean our lives were fucked from the beginning? Was this what really happened? Did I change it for us or did something mess with the timeline and--Fuck."

James' fingers are cold when he treads them through Clint's, but Clint is happy for the contact.

"And that green stone. I dropped it in '43 so it sat in the ruins until you found it so I can take it back there. Where is it now?"

"Trapped," James says and that makes a lot of sense. "But if it needed you to take it out of its loop, then why'd it take you back in the first place? Easiest would've been to never transport you."

"You think it took me back on purpose."

With a deep inhale, James nods. "Until now I thought I--" He stops to let out the air in his lungs, breathes in again. "I kept seeing your eyes, all the colors in them, being there for me through the corrections. I kept seeing them and sometimes your face and I thought I hallucinated that, too."

Clint raises his eyebrows and James squeezes his hand tighter.

"I wouldn't have survived without these visions. Wouldn't have followed you in the first place, tattoo or not."

His chest tightens at the thought and Clint turns to him, brings James' hand to it, hugs his arm to himself.

"So it's trapped because of us. Because it saved us, me and you and Nat. Why'd it do it?" Clint breathes. "We're not important."

"I don't know," James whispers, lips pressing onto each other, just like Bucky's did.

His eyes, however, are liquid steel instead of warm skies, and Clint shivers.

"I'm happy it did," he rasps. "I'm happy you're here. Happy I met you."

James' mouth bends slowly while the corners of his eyes wrinkle with his smile. Clint's heart pumps once, twice.

"I love you very much."

~


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!  
> Again many thanks to Tanouska (for helping me plot and reading and editing) and to Kat (for helping me plot and reading). Also to everyone who allowed me to whine at them about the fic. Nameless is pretty far along already. We have 6 more chapters to go before it's over! Yay. And thanks to everyone for reading this far. Your enthusiasm keeps me writing :)   
> Enjoy! o/

2014

"I love you very much," forms on Clint's lips before Clint has a chance to stop it.

James' face freezes with his smile, soft and slow, before it's replaced by a small crease between his eyebrows.

"You don't understand what it means," Clint concludes, something tightening inside of him.

A blink and James shakes his head once, eyes shifting rapidly as he observes Clint, and Clint clutches tighter at James' arm, pressing it against the ache in his chest. The motion causes James to shift as well, his metal hand wrapping itself on the side of Clint's head, fingers gripping firmly, as if he wants to hold Clint there.

Oh, but Clint's not going anywhere, not even if James never returns the sentiment. He has loved the slumbering Winter Soldier for years, has loved Nat even when she never acknowledges her own affection. In that regard, Clint is patient. Hell, it took him years to admit it to himself, so he won't be deterred by a lack of response now. Not when James is barely learning how to be himself, not after all that he's been through. It would be selfish of Clint to expect anything of him.

As he watches Clint, James' breath deepens, his eyes widen slightly with a little bit of something Clint can't recognize. Maybe fear, but that couldn't be.

It's not long, though, before James pulls at Clint, drags him closer until he can wrap his metal arm around him. Clint lets him, even buries his face against his neck, while James rests his cheek over Clint's temple. And this? It's the best answer because it means there's acceptance and hope instead of rejection.

"I know what the word means," James whispers. "It's in the books and movies, but..." He trails off and Clint closes his eyes.

"Same happened to me," he says, comforting. "It took years to understand and I had help from--hah, actually from Coulson."

"Years?" James asks, pushing away to look at him and Clint shrugs. James frowns, considering for a few moments before huffing. "No," he says. "Tell me now."

Clint's face splits into a grin because the impatience is visible on James and he's holding onto Clint's shoulder with enough force to bruise. James needs this right now and need is basic. Need is something James hasn't been displaying, need is something that was trained out of him. Clint knows, he's been there.

"There's more than one kind of love," Clint says, repeating Phil's words from years ago.

~

Clint stretches his back with a pop before sliding out of the cell to let James have his sleep. They've been talking for hours, Clint's heart lodged in his throat, but now James rests and Clint can't sit still. He makes his way into the kitchen where Nat's nibbling on chips and he grabs a cup of coffee before joining her at the table.

She raises an eyebrow at him then returns to poking at the tablet in front of her.

Clint swallows, breathes, swallows again. There's a pang that forms in the middle of his chest with the swirl of affection inside of him and it sends shivers through his limbs all the way to the tips of his fingers. He smiles into his coffee before remembering the conversation he had the other day.

"Sam's a good looking guy," he says, studying Nat through his eyelashes.

Her fingers stop above the screen and her gaze shifts minutely to Clint. "There's more to Sam than looks."

The words fall flat, inflexible and monotone, but that's exactly what betrays her interest. Clint smirks against the rim of his mug, which makes Natasha huff with annoyance. But then she pushes the tablet aside and leans with her elbows on the table, face open.

"Is it ok to want him?" she breathes, continues before Clint can answer. "I am what I am..."

"And he is not," Clint says.

Nat nods once, eyes clear of walls or masks. Like they are when they dig deep into each other.

"Let's test him," he adds and receives a blink for it. That's dangerous indeed, can go either well or monumentally wrong.

Clint extends a hand and she follows, climbs into his lap, leans her head on his shoulder. Clint rubs at her back with a low hum, like he used to through her sleepless nights, like she used to do to him through his terror filled ones.

"I told him," Clint whispers, "but I don't think he gets it."

Nat's long exhale tickles the side of his neck before she speaks. "I still don't get it sometimes."

"Perhaps the trick is to just feel."

"Emotions can get one killed," Nat returns, a little too bitterly. "Asshole got himself shot to save me. I don't need saving."

Clint can't help but laugh at that and it earns him a punch to the shoulder. Not the same that holds the imprint of James' metal hand on it, but this one's going to bruise, too. Clint sticks his tongue out at her.

"Of course you do," he says, "you're family."

Her eyes narrow in displeasure, but it's fake. Clint knows it, she knows it. It's how they communicate and it's so familiar after his long years away.

"Sasha," Clint whispers, bringing them back to that moment they met, "I love you."

Her eyebrows knit in a frown and instead of her usual rebuff, she caresses the side of his face. "Has it really been five years?" she asks, just as quietly.

Clint nods, drawing a grimace out of her, but it only lasts a second before her face brightens. She draws a big breath, eyes sparkling, mouth on the verge of smiling.

"Nemo, I love you," she repeats his words.

There's a sound coming out of Clint's throat that feels like a laugh, but it's more of a high pitched whine. Nat bites her lips, uselessly trying to contain her wide grin.

"Yes?" she asks, holding onto his shoulders.

"Yes, yes." Everything yes, it's amazing and it hurts in the good way. "Thank you," he says before drawing her closer.

Nat goes easily, chuckling softly. "If I knew your face would look this stupid, I would've said it long ago."

More laughter bubbles out of Clint. "Asshole," he manages.

Their mirth is shared for long moments before Nat leans back up, sobering. Clint rubs her arm. "We have work to do," she says.

Clint hums. That they do.

~

The panic room is quiet as they all stare at the wall in front of them. While Clint was in New York getting tested, Nat and James have cleared out half the space covered in their their years' worth of Nemo information, but did so in such a way that all their previous research is undisturbed, albeit a little crowded on half of the panel mounted there. There are even small notes from James pinned into the cork with corrections or confirmations.

Now the new half is adorned with what they discovered in their recent investigation into the Winter Soldier, which is not much. They have the locations they've already checked out and the address where Nat saw the trigger file during her previous mission. It's in Minsk and they all agree that it's highly suspicious that the last base on their initial list was outside of the same city, even though Nat went there with Hill and they found it abandoned.

From what Nat recalls of her Red Room infiltration mission, the address used to host a large house of someone well off during that time, someone with connections most likely. Her debrief didn't give her the target's name and she never asked. However, the building has been leveled in 2012 and right now they're waiting for JARVIS to finish its encrypted search into the former residents of the house.

Clint hops to sit on the table they dragged closer, still partly covered with papers and files. James looks at him from the corner of his eye as he stands near the window. He's been doing that a lot since last night, watching Clint with more scrutiny than usual. Clint shivers before breaking the silence by pulling his recovered notebooks from their plastic wrapping.

There are four of them, salvaged from homework notebooks of Jacob's students, so about a quarter of each is covered in math lessons and ink blots. But after there's Clint's scratchy script, pages upon pages of whatever he remembered of each loop. Sometimes he even managed some awkward sketches of the places he's seen, nothing fancy, but enough to make them recognizable. His code is not that complicated either, not obvious of course, just something he and Nat devised out of necessity during one of their first missions and refined ever since.

Nat joins him on the table and Clint hands one over.

The pages shuffle quietly when Nat turns them as she leafs through the entries. A swear leaves her lips in a Russian mutter and that draws James closer. Clint sneaks a peek at what she's been reading. Ah, that one.

"Run 22: I almost shot him in the forehead because I can't take his screams anymore," Nat reads.

When Clint looks at James, his face is blank, but his flesh hand wraps itself around Clint's knee. Nat turns the page, looks at it for a brief moment before snapping it closed altogether.

"You should be the one reading this," she tells James, giving him the notebook.

"I wrote nice things about you in there, too," Clint jokes, bumping her shoulder with his own, but his joke falls flat. "Yeah," he sighs.

It's why he didn't leave them with Tony. They're too private for him and James. Not for Steve's eyes, either, and not only because James doesn't want Steve to know he's with Clint, but also because Steve shouldn't witness what Clint did. Not with the way Steve cares about his friend. Clint wouldn't want that sort of pain on him and he reckons it was enough for Steve to have seen Bucky fall to his death.

He jumps to his feet, searches through the files on a shelf, and returns with a sheet of paper.

"This is the cypher," Clint tells James, placing both sheet and the rest of the notebooks on the table.

James sets the fourth on top of them, then takes a long while just staring at the stack.

"If you don't wanna do it," Clint says, "I'll go through them and make a list of relevant information, but you might see something I missed."

"No--" James starts, clears his voice. "I want to."

The seconds tick without any of them moving, surrounded by a silence that is both heavier and lighter at the same time, until a minute passes, then two.

Clint's phone pings with a message, breaking the spell, and he checks it.

"JARVIS sent us a name," Clint says while skimming over the email. "Bratislav Pavlenko, cultural attaché, requested asylum after his service at the embassy in Washington ended--what the fuck."

Nat's next to Clint in a heartbeat, looking at the phone. "Do you know him?"

"It's Rostov," Clint says and James chokes.

~

He wants to do many things to Rostov, all of which would certainly lead to his death, so they're not an option. Clint needs to reign in his anger toward James' torturer and follow Nat's lead on this one. He's compromised.

So far they've agreed on an infiltration mission to gather information, as stealthily as possible. If successful, Rostov will remain unaware and placed under surveillance in case he can lead them to other targets. Coulson will post an agent at location and Tony already hacked JARVIS into the cameras surrounding Rostov's place. The coverage is not good, not at all, but they're trying to get as many angles as possible. They're keeping this from the rest of the Avengers, Steve especially, much to Tony's displeasure. It's unfair to make him keep this secret.

Clint leans with his hands on the sides of the still open doorway of the cell, watches James arranging his supplies for a while, then checks to see if his phone is still connected to the video system of the cabin. All good.

"I still don't like it," Clint says.

"I'll be fine," James returns after stacking a few books at the side of the mattress. "I have water and food for a few days."

"And the door is programmed to open automatically after a week, in case we don't make it back," Clint adds for the umpteenth time, in an effort to convince himself to leave James locked up and defenseless in the middle of the woods.

"You'll make it back," James says with such hardness in his voice that it startles Clint.

Yeah, ok, fair. James is worried, too, and Clint nods. His attention is drawn by his notebooks, carefully placed on top of the blanket.

"When I wrote those I never thought I'd make it home," Clint says. "Thought they'd be found after I was gone." James frowns and Clint shrugs. "But then someone gave me hope that I'd get back and I guess I shouldn't disappoint either of you."

James alternates between smiling and frowning, but in the end he presses his lips together. "Who was it?"

It pulls a huff of laughter from Clint. "I'll tell you later," he says, causing James to cross his arms. "Don't give me that, I promise I'll tell you later," Clint stresses, which does nothing to placate James. "But in the meantime, I think Steve could use a little hope."

James looks away.

"Just a breadcrumb," Clint adds, "a small sign that you're alive. Maybe this way he'll stop being distracted during fights and focus on keeping his ass bullet free."

That makes James turn so fast, it's almost dizzying.

"You didn't tell me he got shot," James mutters.

"He didn't, not yet."

A few seconds pass as James considers this, but then his shoulders slump and Clint has the impression he was also close to rolling his eyes. "A sign," he says.

"Yeah. Sam's still running fake leads for you, think about leaving a note for him to find somewhere. What would you tell him if he was after you right now?"

"Stop searching," James returns immediately.

"There you go."

"Ready!" Nat's voice drifts in from upstairs before her head pops in and she waves at James, receiving a matching salute.

Clint moves to lock the cell door, already anxious to get back.

"Wait, Clint," James says and Clint turns.

Nothing else follows, though, because James blinks, lips moving without sound, words elusive. Clint smiles and walks closer. He places a peck on James' cheek.

"I'll see you later."

James nods, fingers brushing over the skin Clint's just kissed, eyes wide and open, and Clint's heart skips a beat.

Hope. There's hope.

~

The mission almost fails two hours in because apparently they all underestimated Sam Wilson, who parks a car across the street from Rostov's place, two doors down. One away from the house Clint and Nat are using to survey Rostov which Coulson arranged for them.

Clint lowers the scope of his rifle to look at Nat, but Nat's already calling Sam, so Clint turns back to watching the street.

"Hey, Sam," Nat says, "I need you to stop right now."

Outside of his car, Sam freezes, eyes shifting, but he's smart enough to know something's up and Clint smiles internally. It also says a lot about how much he trusts Nat.

"Walk straight, keep casual, laugh at the conversation," Nat instructs and Clint watches Sam complying. "Good, now turn left and walk up to the door. Take out your keys and pretend to unlock the door."

Clint's off his feet and running downstairs in a heartbeat. He reaches the door and opens it from the inside just as Sam's turning the knob.

"What's going on?" Sam asks after Clint closes the door, carefully out of sight.

At the top of the stairs, Nat looks at them and Clint tilts his head. "Let's talk upstairs."

In no time Clint is back to watching Rostov's house through his scope while Nat asks Sam for his reason to be here.

"An old army buddy told me about this Russian guy that's a sort of an information broker," Sam explains. "I thought he might know something about the ghost."

Clint can't help a snort.

"What are you doing here?" Sam asks in turn, frown deep on his face.

"Same as you," Nat tells him. "Looking for intel."

Sam pauses, looks around at the weapons and the surveillance tech around them. "Why all this?"

"The target's name is Rostov," Nat says. "He was a colonel, but also worked for HYDRA, and he was responsible for the Winter Soldier for years before he moved here."

Sam's frown turns into raised eyebrows over an incredulous stare.

"It's a long story," Nat continues, "one that's not mine to tell."

"You can," Clint says.

"What about--"

"He'll understand. Test him."

"What's going on?" Sam interrupts their back and forth. "Test who? Who'll understand?"

From the corner of his eye, Clint sees Nat sit on the floor in the empty corner of the room. She pats the wood next to her and it's not long before Sam joins her, cross legged.

"For the past ten years," Nat starts, "I've been helping Clint search for the Winter Soldier. I know exactly where he is right now and I lied to you and sent you on a wild goose chase on purpose."

Silence follows. Across the street, Rostov's silhouette is barely visible behind his curtains as he moves through the house. The man knows how to hide from prying eyes, but Clint's patient.

"What?" Sam finally says. "Excuse me, I thought you said you lied to me," he grits now and with good reason.

"I did lie to you," Nat confirms.

There's a shuffle as Sam jumps to his feet. He spends long moments walking back and forth around the room, and Clint can feel Sam's eyes burning holes into the back of his head. But then Sam makes the right move because he asks "Why?"

It says a lot about someone's character if they're willing to listen, especially when they were hurt by the reasoning behind someone else's actions.

"Because a friend who is suffering asked me to," she says. "A friend who saved my life and almost died in the process. A friend who is family."

"It was him, wasn't it?" Sam asks.

"Yes."

There's a pause, then Sam folds back to his previous position next to Nat. A strangled laugh comes out of his throat before he places his fingers over his lips. Clint alternates between watching Sam and watching for Rostov.

"He ripped the fucking steering wheel out of my hands," Sam says, lifting his arms. "He almost killed Steve. Shot you!"

"True," Nat returns, "but without him I wouldn't be here."

Sam stills in his gesturing. "How so?"

Here it goes. Clint takes a deep breath.

"In '97 he saved Clint," Nat says, "then in '02 Clint saved me. I was fifteen and about to force myself to sleep with a grown man in order to complete my mission. Clint helped me get my first kill that day."

There’s a gasp from Sam. Nat's voice is level, but Clint can feel the sharp undercurrent beneath.

"Are you--" Sam stops abruptly.

"Fine? No, Sam, I'm not. I never will be," she says, an uncharacteristic gentleness in her voice. "Everyone who tried to touch me like that since got a bullet to the head, but it's never enough."

Sam looks from Nat to Clint and then back, so Clint reckons he owes him an explanation. He sets down his rifle and moves to crouch next to the other two, places a hand on Nat's shoulder.

"Dear Natasha is very dangerous," Clint says, smiling at her, and receives a matching one in return.

"I can see you weren't joking," Sam mutters.

Nemo drops everything that makes him Clint and raises an eyebrow at Sam. "Your move."

Lifting his chin, Sam takes them in, scrutiny unveiled, but Nemo lets him have his fill. "You're asking me to choose between you and Steve," Sam concludes.

"Yes." 

"Fuck you."

"Good choice," Nemo grins and Sam scoffs, irritation visible. "We value loyalty above all."

"Sam," Nat says, drawing his attention back to her. "Do me a favor," and Sam's already shaking his head. "Talk to James before telling Steve."

Whatever Sam was about to say dies on his lips because he pauses, surprise on his face. "You two are really something," he breathes.

"And then some," Nemo counters with a wink and a smirk, entirely inappropriate, but hey. He's allowed, especially when his throat has been closing around a lump ever since Nat mentioned their first meeting. He really wants Sam on board, really wishes he'll accept Nat as she is.

"Go back to work," Nat waves him off.

Nemo slinks to his rifle, throwing "yes, ma'am" over his shoulder. Hm, Rostov hasn't left the house yet.

Behind him, the room is silent for long minutes that soon turn into half an hour. Rostov moves into the kitchen and Nemo sees the light being switched on. It's fortunate that he hasn't loaded the weapon, otherwise the trigger Nemo just pulled would've been the end of their mission. The echo of the firing mechanism is loud in the room.

"No killing," Nat says.

"I know," Nemo rasps. "I just can't help it. Wanna split him open and make him eat his own guts."

"After," Nat placates. "We'll come back here and give him the electric special. He'll be ours for days. How's that?"

Nemo hums with a long exhale, trying to calm himself back down.

"I think Steve might want in on that," Sam quips and Nemo laughs.

"I knew I liked you, Wilson," he says.

Sam flips him off, but then his shoulders slump and he rests his forehead in his palm. "Fine, I'll talk to Barnes first," he relents.

When Nemo turns to them, Nat is smiling at Sam, a lot softer than usual. But Sam catches it, then quickly looks away with a rub to the back of his head. 

"So," Sam says, clearing his voice, "I hear you like knives."

~

It's two more days before they manage to sneak into Rostov's house. In the meantime, Sam's been clearly trying to understand the big reveal and Clint is grateful he's not quick to throw judgment. It's one of the things that makes Clint think he might be good for Nat.

In Rostov's basement, hidden in a reinforced hole behind his boiler, there are files from various organizations, including HYDRA, and they makes copies of everything. The jackpot, though, is a notebook in red, a star etched on it that matches the one painted on James' arm.

User manual.

Trigger phrases.

'Treatment' schedule.

Clint doesn't remember seeing this book anywhere while he was watching over the Soldier. It looks old, though, older than two decades. Perhaps the programming happened way before '97, which is entirely plausible. Clint inspects its cover carefully, front and back, outside and inside until he finds it. Small, written in Cyrillic, a name on the edge of the last page: V. Ivchenko.

He really wants to be able to hunt this monster down, but Ivchenko's been dead for years, according to old files they've checked during their sift through the SHIELD information dump.

They take the red book with them and leave Coulson's assigned agent to manage the surveillance.

~

As expected, the cabin is silent when they reach it with the sunset. Sam is also quiet as he takes in the space. Right. Clint takes a deep breath.

"Let me talk to him first," he says as he flips the rug hiding the basement door to the side.

"We'll start on dinner," Nat returns.

Sam adds something, but Clint's not listening anymore as he climbs down the stairs.

And his heart rips itself to pieces at the sight in the cell.

James sits against the wall, knees drawn to himself, the notebooks spread open in front of him. His face is wet, eyes screwed shut, flesh and metal hands both pressed over his mouth. Clint's legs want to give out beneath him, but he doesn't let them. He doesn't know how he manages to input the correct code in the door lock, doesn't remember walking to James. Maybe he crawls. But he's there, and holding, and soothing, and crying with him.

~

Clint washes his face at the sink after James does the same.

"You brought someone new," James says, eying the ceiling.

"Yeah," Clint returns. "Sam Wilson stumbled onto Rostov so... He promised not to tell Steve where you are until you talk to him."

A blink, and then James nods, short and tight, but doesn't move. Clint gets it, they're both drained.

"Let's lie down for a bit," he suggests, and that sets James into motion.

It takes only a moment to clear out the mattress of paper and pens and notebooks, and soon they're spread out, face to face. Clint pulls a blanket over them as well.

"They did so many horrible things to me," James whispers. The hair on his face has grown while they were gone and Clint runs his thumb over the stubble.

"You are loved," Clint tells him, just as quietly.

James' lips twitch at the corners with a long exhale. He likes hearing that, then, and it makes Clint smile as well.

"Do you want to kiss me?"

The air stills in Clint's lungs. Oh, how he wants. "Yes," he breathes. "Do you want me to kiss you?"

James licks his lips. "On the mouth."

There's a swarm of butterflies twisting his insides in the most pleasant way, anticipation tingling from the tip of his head to the ends of his toes, as Clint closes the distance between them. It's even better when his touch is matched, after a heartbeat, James' lips hot against the thrumming in Clint's veins. And when that warmth spreads into their contact, that's when Clint knows.

That he is loved right back.

~


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone o/  
> Again many thanks to Tanouska and Kat. The planning of this was especially gruesome and I have relentlessly ranted, whined, ranted some more, and required motivation and support. Which I got.  
> Hope your weekend is going well. Enjoy!

2014

James inhales, listening to his own heartbeat. Slightly elevated, but nothing concerning. Instead, the breaths he draws tighten something in his chest, only to expand into the most wonderful warmth. It almost aches, but doesn't, tethering on the edge of too much, yet too little.

He wants to place his lips onto Clint's again, but Clint is sleeping, so James lays still, immersing himself instead in watching his face. His eyes are closed right now, the green and blue and gold of their irises hidden from view. Yet the colors are there, forever etched into James' memory. He hasn't imagined those eyes keeping him from ripping at the seams all those painful moments in the chair. No, Clint was there. Clint is here right now as well, touching, wanting, loving James.

And James soars with it.

He is not a thing, no. What Clint gives him is a permanent reminder of that.

Laughter tries to make its way out of James' throat, but he stifles it, careful not to wake Clint. Upstairs, Natasha is talking to their new guest, and if James were to concentrate, he would hear their conversation. He chooses not to, content to remain in this silence for a while longer, with Clint next to him on the mattress of the cell.

It makes him wonder... back when he followed Clint that first day it was out of instinct, the same one that made him pull Steve out of the river.

Now here he is, with a soul that calls to him. James wishes for a soul like Clint's, wishes for his strength. He's figured it out, while reading through the notebooks, the length of Clint's patience. Twenty three years in total. Almost as long as James' entire life, and this knowledge swirls through him until it starts to materialize into a chuckle.

James frowns at himself, willing his stomach to stop squirming.

But does James deserve this--wait, no. Clint surely does and whatever he wants, James will give him. He'll even give him love, when he figures out how to feel it. He'll love Clint and Natasha, and perhaps even try to love all those that they love. Perhaps even try to let Steve near.

He closes his eyes on the tail of another inhale. Promises to himself.

Clint shifts, his face even closer, his exhales tickling James' lips. An image passes through his mind. A face relaxed in sleep, James watching it while leaning on an elbow, and he matches the position, chasing remembrance. The light in the room was much lower, much warmer. The wall behind him a lot colder, the body next to him... gone with a blink. It's a memory trying to surface, but James can't catch it, not yet.

Much like he can't catch this secret Clint is keeping about his trip into the past. Something happened to him there, perhaps while in Austria, because it wasn't in the notebooks. A few times Clint started saying something about the war only to veer off into another idea. James is curious, but he won't ask, just like Clint doesn't press for things James can't put into words.

He's sure that when it becomes important, Clint will tell him. Which brings his attention back to the man lying there, trusting James. Clint sleeps with his back to the open door of the cell, having placed himself in James' hands to be guarded.

And James dares touch his lips, barely so, onto Clint's temple. He's back to the state of elation. Clint kissed him, on the mouth, and it made sense without making sense, like a forgotten thing slotting back into place. The huff of silliness James lets out is almost too loud, and he shakes himself. This is getting ridiculous. So he carefully slides out from under the blanket, then out of the cell.

Upstairs, Natasha sees him first over the half wall separating the kitchen from the rest of the space and she tips her head toward the man there. He's facing away from James, and James remembers ripping the wings off Sam Wilson's back.

He breathes in, readying to explain his reluctance to see Steve. At times he can't quite clarify to himself why this is, but there's something that's keeping him away and most days it feels like fear. Of Steve, for Steve... of Bucky Barnes taking over and James losing himself once more.

Of Nemo being gone.

He straightens his shoulders and walks closer, and closer. Ah, too close--Wilson startles, almost dropping his glass of water, which earns him a glare. It doesn't bode well.

"Here," Wilson grits, handing over the glass, and James takes it automatically, then raises an eyebrow. "I'm all out of steering wheels," Wilson says.

Natasha's laugh is quiet, but still clear in the silence of the cabin, until the meaning of the words catches onto James.

"She told me I did that," he says, shrugging a shoulder her way after he sets down the drink. "Wish I could remember, it sounds like a magnificent feat of strength and agility," James monotones, then turns to grab himself some tea.

Something flies toward him, a tissue, and James lets it hit the side of his head.

"I'm not cleaning that up," he says as he takes a seat at the table, Natasha on his left, Wilson on his right.

"I hate you so much," Wilson says, shaking his head, arms crossed.

But his mouth won't sit still in its grimace, the corners pulling upwards, and James grins.

"Oh, fuck off," Wilson says, laughing.

Natasha slips out of the kitchen and James inhales, dares extend his flesh hand.

"I am--call me James," he says. Wilson's not ready for Nemo. James is not ready for this side of him to be exposed.

"Sam," Wilson says and shakes James' hand, alleviating some of the uneasiness in James. "So I hear you've been feeding us false leads. Man, do you have any idea where I've had to go for your ass? I even got chased by a pack of twenty dogs once!"

"I hear Steve's been making you do his searching for him," James counters.

"Don't get me started on--oh, no. No, you don't."

James doesn't stop the smirk from showing before he sips from his tea. His stomach grumbles with hunger and Sam tilts his head in consideration, eyes shifting from James to the sandwich still sitting between them. Before James can figure out what this means, Sam slowly pulls the plate closer to himself and away from James.

"We're all out."

The laughter that forms in his belly turns into a snort. "I see now why you're friends with Steve."

Sam's teeth are very bright with his big smile. "Kettle," he says, pointing at James, "pot," and he turns his index finger toward himself.

But that's the problem, isn't it, and all mirth leaves James unabated.

"I am not his friend," James says.

Sam blinks at him a few times before letting out a long exhale. He crosses his arms. "No, you're the guy who tried to kill my friend."

"Not him either," James counters and Sam grimaces.

"Who are you, then?"

"Nobody."

Sam scoffs, shakes his head before looking away. James watches the light glint off the surface of the tea for a while.

"Bucky Barnes died when he fell from that train," he breathes. "The man you fought in DC was a mindless weapon. I am neither of those."

"That why you're hiding?"

"I'm dangerous. Someone needs to make sure I don't--"

"So you don't trust us," Sam spits and James looks at him. Sam seems angry.

"Clint would kill me," James whispers. "Would you? Would Steve?"

There's a fraction of a second when Sam freezes, but then his face falls, eyes widening with understanding.

"Two weeks ago Natasha triggered one of my programmed sequences and I almost shot innocent people. I stay here locked in a cell. Did you want me in New York with Steve when that happened? With Steve who let me beat him to a pulp?"

Sam swallows as James talks, but soon he slumps into the table, forehead in his palms. "I don't wanna lie to him," he rasps.

"Then tell him you found me. Tell him I'm safe and I asked you to keep my location secret. Please, Sam."

He is silent for a long time, shoulders tight, and James looks past him, where Natasha sits on a couch. She nods with a thumbs up.

"I need to think about this," Sam finally says.

Natasha grins and James exhales a breath he wasn't aware he's been holding.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome to stay as long as you want," Natasha adds as she comes closer.

Sam throws her a peculiar look, seems almost like--ah. He recognizes it now, Clint used to give him the same one before. A smile blooms back on James' lips, one he doesn't bother stifle.

"Make us some warm food," Natasha says, poking at James' shoulder.

"Yes, ma'am," James returns as he stands.

"Yes, ma'am," Sam repeats. "Would you look at that, taming the Beast. I'm impressed, Romanov--ow!"

When James glances at them from where he's been inspecting the fridge, she's smirking and he's rubbing at the back of his head.

"That was all Clint," Natasha corrects.

"You know what," Sam tells her, "I can see it. Clint's prettier than you, he'd make a better Beauty."

That's when Clint strolls in, hair plastered on one side of the head and sticking up on the other.

"This is prettier than me," Natasha deadpans at Sam, who shrugs, amusement on his face.

"He has his charm."

Clint grabs James' mug of tea, gulps from it. "Bleh," he mumbles, making a face. "Tell me you're feeding us."

"I am," James appeases.

Clint sits in the chair there and plasters himself onto the table. "You're the best."

"We'll see about that," Sam mutters.

James smiles and starts a pot of coffee.

~

Afternoon light sifts through the curtains of the vault room in a way that gives the red covers of the notebook a bloody tint. James looks down at his left shoulder. Even though it's covered by the sleeve of the hoodie, he knows the same star as the one etched on the notebook is drawn on the metal of the plates. He feels branded.

But then he lifts his right wrist, burns the sight of the tattoo into his retinas until he can see it when he closes his eyes.

When he meets the notebooks face on again, he is removed from its grasp, at least in spirit. The dreaded triggers still remain.

Going through Rostov's files for the past few days has angered him in a way he hasn't felt - hasn't remembered feeling. Ever. Earlier he stumbled upon something in one of the forms, a reference to the Winter Soldier. They called him the Asset in a lot of documents, but not this one. No, for a while he was 'livestock' with a 'best by' date.

It hurt so badly to read that, like a punch into his sternum. Almost felt like it cracked.

It also brought him a sort of serenity.

He no longer wonders how his torturers stomached what they did to him.

He no longer cares.

It's over now. It happened, but it's over.

Yes, the threat of triggers still looms over them all, but he has Nemo and Natasha. He knows Tony now, and Sam, and Thor the demigod. Steve cares about what he used to be, so maybe he'll care about what James is now.

It's been a little over three and a half months since he's been in this life, still drowning in his old one, but no more. The answers he was lacking, what they did, what happened to him, James now has them. Through Clint's notebooks, through Rostov's files.

Through this red abomination that Clint read silently for James, then conveyed the relevant information. Now the book sits under lock, behind a clear case of reinforced glass, among the memories of his new family. It's next to everything that makes them what they are.

Survivors.

~

James leans back into the tree trunk and pulls Clint closer. In front of them, the valley stretches dark green under the light of early dawn, with the first splashes of orange that peek out from the sea of pine trees. He forgot about forests and seasons and kisses. He forgot many things, and those he remembers are sometimes unreliable. So he reads. The internet's helpful, especially about the little things. Like why some leaves turn yellow. As the sky lights up with blue, the image in front of him overlays onto the three colors of Clint's irises and James looks at him.

His breath is slightly visible in the chilly air, his eyelashes moving as he watches birds start to fly out of trees.

They talked about keeping this thing they do to themselves for now. They're hidden from view here, and James is sure Sam is still sleeping, so he leans closer.

"I want another kiss," he whispers.

Clint looks at him, the corners of his mouth twitching upward, eyes bright. "You can have as many as you like."

"Already asked for three today," he says.

"As many as you like," Clint repeats.

When his lips touch Clint's it's like the rhythm of his body changes. Unexplainable and nonsensical, but it surges through him, an euphoric sense of good and yes and comfort.

~

James paces the length of the cell, very much aware of how Sam watches him from the other side of the glass, cross legged on the floor with his tablet in his lap. Clint and Nat have only been gone a few hours and he's already started to question his decision to stay behind.

In Rostov's files they've found leads to three locations that might hide assets HYDRA didn't want public. The one in Budapest has been cleared out as Natasha and Agent May discovered, so they must have been so close when James was shot. Of the other two, one is in a small country called Sokovia, while the other is in a decommissioned missile silo somewhere in the Siberian permafrost. This last one sounds vaguely familiar, although James can't pinpoint why or how.

A quick check by JARVIS of current traffic in and out of Sokovia revealed an increase in international travelers, so the first mission is there. Clint and Natasha are now with the rest of the Avengers on their way toward an unknown base with unknown hostiles. James vibrates.

"Are you sure you don't want out of there?" Sam asks and James pauses.

"No," he says.

"You don't want out or you're not sure?"

Sam smirks at him with the question and James walks toward the glass to sit down on the ground.

"I'm sure," he breathes.

It's James' turn to watch Sam right back and the seconds turn into minutes while Sam taps at the tablet, engrossed in reading something. Emails. Natasha showed him those, she even made him an account, but James has no device of his own right now. And after being triggered, they all agreed it's best he doesn't have possibilities to communicate with the outside should he turn again.

That's why Sam is here, to keep them both informed of the progress in Sokovia. James still doesn't fully understand what made Sam stay behind and why he didn't already talk to Steve about finding James. But he's happy for the company, so he won't poke at Sam's reasons.

"Clint says they landed. Bogies coming at them, looks like the right place." With that, Sam moves closer to the glass wall, dragging his sofa cushion with him. "Here," he says and turns the tablet toward him to show James a picture of the battlefield.

More messages arrive in quick succession with Clint's commentary about the fighting. Well, if he has time to chat, it shouldn't be much of a challenge.

"So how do you know Nat and Clint?" Sam asks.

"It's a long story," James returns. Sam raises his eyebrows, but doesn't ask further, so James decides to give him an answer. "I saved him, he saved me."

"Wow, six whole words worth of length," Sam comments.

The metal of his fingers wants to wrap itself around his flesh wrist protectively as James considers this, but he refrains from drawing attention to the tattoo, even though it's hidden from view. "It's not entirely my story to tell."

Sam nods. "Fair enough." He taps his palm on his thigh for a few beats. "You both act like Nat's the boss here, but it's Clint calling the shots, isn't he?"

This makes James smile. "You're wrong. There are no orders, only requests."

"Steve likes to boss people around," Sam says, shaking his head.

"That he does," James confirms. Memories are shoddy, highly unreliable, but more are trickling in every day, tiny bit by tiny bit.

"It's just hard to imagine him small and angry and big-mouthed," Sam shrugs.

"Hah. Imagine him barely breathing with his asthma and still insisting to fight."

"Actually," Sam say with a scratch to his head, "he did that a few times already, but with bullet wounds. A rebar once, too."

"Where was it?" James asks, already expecting to hear about guts spilling over.

"In his thigh," Sam says. "In all fairness, he took it for me."

James smirks. "He does like to save people."

"Hey, I hear you like to do the same," Sam returns and wiggles a finger at James' questioning look. "Nat."

That. James has nothing to say to that, so he leans into the glass, closing his eyes. Soon, Sam shifts as well and starts talking about a bakery he remembers from when he was a kid. James takes note of all the pastries Sam recalls.

~

A few hours later they receive a message that the scepter has been found and the Avengers are returning to New York with it. They also have a name, Wolfgang von Strucker, but the guy escaped at the last minute. Natasha also tells them it looks like Strucker, self-proclaimed baron, might have been conducting human experiments in his lab there that involved the scepter somehow.

Clint is less chatty because of course he got grazed by a bullet and now he's moping over his broken phone. James would very much like to be with him right now, but both he and Natasha won't return tonight. Tony's having a celebratory gathering in honor of finding their target and everyone is staying. James agrees, Stark needs a break, he's been working hard over the past months.

Sam is not amused for having to relay this plethora of messages back and forth. He's even less pleased when he finds out everyone knows about James but Steve. And when Clint gets his hands on a new phone, Sam gives up and opens a videochat link for them, leaves the tablet reclined on the cushion for James to see.

"Hi," Clint says and then he spends almost an entire minute just looking at James.

He's not saying it, but James hears it anyway. _You are loved._

"Hiding in a closet," Clint whispers, moving the camera to show a few shelves with brooms and bottles and towels.

"How's the party?"

"Good. Tony and Steve are bickering like an old married couple. Me and Nat are gonna go see Pepper later, too. You'd like her," Clint says, then chews at his lip. "Listen," he whispers. "Strucker had some weird symbols written on an empty wooden box. It was about as big as my palm and inside it had a compartment in the shape of the time stone tag. Might be a coincidence--"

"You don't think it is."

Clint shakes his head. "I have a bad feeling about th--"

The image shakes and crackles with an explosion.

"What the f--" Clint starts, but the feed cuts off abruptly.

James is on his feet before the first sound is out of his mouth.

"Sam!" he yells. "Sam!"

~

"Can't get through. I'm going," Sam says, a pointed look at the keypad.

James considers the implications and finds that right now, right this instant, he can't take staying behind. So he nods and watches Sam's shaking fingers unlock the cell door. They're upstairs in a heartbeat and Sam suits up in the living room where his gear case has been sitting while James picks from their supplies in the vault room.

There are many things that could've gone wrong, many that can still go sideways. James is a danger, the Soldier is a danger, but that's a risk he's willing to take if it means the others are safe.

"I am Nemo," he breathes to himself. "I am Nemo."

He takes one knife. Nemo doesn't need more weapons other than himself.

~

"I'm driving," Sam says, snatching the keys from James' hand.

He's jittery and tense. They're both affected, but Sam can't seem to have a handle on his body, not like James does, which can lead to mistakes and mistakes lead to hurt.

"You can't," James counters, taking the keys back, which earns him a scoff. "You have a history of losing your steering wheels," he explains.

A beat, and the sound Sam barks is more of a shout than anything, but he's laughing now, muscles unwinding. Good.

"You monumental ass," Sam gasps, "you're worse than Steve."

"There's evidence to support that, yes," James mutters.

The tightness in Sam has snapped, though, so he's more focused as he tries to contact the tower's security, JARVIS, or the Avengers. Nobody's answering and James spares a lot of energy toward refraining from a spiral into panic.

~

The cabin is about an hour away, but Clint's car is modified for speed, and they make excellent time on the highways. However, the traffic gets harder and harder to sneak through as they make their way further into the city.

So they fly.

They have to make a few stops on rooftops because Sam's wings aren't made for distance, but soon they're observing the Avengers tower from the top of a neighboring building.

There's a gap in the glass walls surrounding the penthouse, two quinjets on the roof, mercenaries swarming around. The upper half of the building is bathed in darkness save for muzzle flashes and brief bouts of lightning here and there.

"'s not good," Sam says.

Just then Clint flies out a broken window, but the cord he's attached to pulls him back in and James inhales.

They land behind one of the quinjets, avoid detection by sneaking down the elevator shaft, and they're inside the penthouse in a few minutes, in time to duck from Steve's shield.

"What took you so long," Clint yells right over Steve's incredulous "Bucky?"

But Steve's inattention costs him a hard hit and he flies all across the room, knocking away Tony's opponent. Behind Tony, the lab is closed off by transparent walls. A man that James recognizes as Bruce Banner is in there with the scepter and a taser in his hand. Oh, and suits, IronMan suits, which explains why Tony's trying and failing to guard that door with only the foot of a broken chair in his hands while Steve runs back into the fray.

Something slams into Sam, who barely avoids a broken table by spreading his wings. Natasha and Clint seem to have a handle on things, while Thor's advancing on a flash of light. Yeah, that's a guy, a really really fast guy, that apparently tried to grab Mjolnir and got stopped by its otherworldly volition. James rushes over to help Tony and takes out two mercs before resuming his survey of the room.

That's when he sees her.

Soft and shiny, yet inconspicuous, gushing red out of her fingers toward Thor's forehead, which leaves Thor swaying on his feet, staring dumbly at the walls. Next is Steve, but James' attention is grabbed by gunshots, so he pushes Tony down, curls up around him and deflects the bullets with his metal arm.

When James looks back up, Steve is seated on the ground, Natasha's eyes are rolling in her head, and somewhere behind them a man in an uniform watches, barking orders in German. That must be Strucker.

"James! No!"

Clint's voice drifts through, sharp, hard, and he turns toward it.

Turns to see red eyes and red hair and--

Crimson tendrils that turn into pain, pain, pain--

_Ready to comply._

~


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again everyone! o/  
> I have changed the posting schedule a little and hopefully I can keep it up. The idea is to finish be the beginning of next month with the last 4 chapters :) *crossing fingers* Your comments keep me motivated!  
> Again many thanks to Tanouska and Kat and Ames and Tanya. I've been thinking lately of all the people who have been with me through all of this and the list keeps growing :)  
> Hopefully this chapter will come as a distraction in light of recent events. Enjoy!

2014

With a sharp inhale, James startles awake. His instinct is to move away from danger, from the fight, but he finds himself held back by his left wrist. When he manages to clear the fog enough to blink over, he's met with the sight of Thor's hammer pinning it down to the surface of a low bench. He takes stock of himself, kneeling on the concrete floor of the lab, scratches on his flesh hand, a twinge in the muscles of his back due to his slumped position. Headache.

In front of him, Steve and Sam watch, arms crossed and brows furrowed.

"What'd I do?" James asks around a sigh.

"Bad things, mostly to the furniture," Sam says while Steve takes a step closer.

"Do you know me?"

James almost says no, because he doesn't really know Steve, but he is aware of who Steve is, so he gives the best answer he can. "You're Steve Rogers. Your mother's name was Sarah. You don't know how to dance."

Steve looks like he's about to cry as he breathes "Bucky."

Next to him, Sam looks from him to James in rapid succession, his gaze turning into a glare. "What, just like that we're supposed to be cool now?"

Steve nods, eyebrows shifting on his forehead with no doubt thoughts over his lost friend and James squirms. But before he can say anything, Sam shoulders past Steve, leans close.

"Who are you?" he asks, low and quiet and between them.

"Nobody," James whispers.

Sam studies his face for a few more moments before he straightens with a nod.

"My friend," Thor's voice drifts through as he approaches, "are you back to yourself?"

James shrugs. "For now."

Thor places a large hand on James' shoulder. "Good," he says, then removes the hammer.

"Where's Clint? Natasha?" James asks as he rotates the arm to recalibrate, focusing on the shift of the plates. No damage.

"I'm here," Natasha says as she comes close as well, a phone balanced between her ear and her shoulder, another one in her hands. "Yes, we're waiting," she says and hangs up. "Coulson and Hill are on their way. Fury went to find us more fire power. Bruce is waiting downstairs for Pepper."

"Where's Clint?" James asks again, apprehension crawling up his skin.

She stops in front of him, kneels there, and drops the phones on the ground.

No. No, please no.

"We'll get them back," Natasha says.

"He's alive," James chokes, more like asks for confirmation, and Natasha nods.

"Strucker took him and Tony and the scepter while we were busy fighting you off."

James screws his eyes shut. Her hands wrap around his neck and he stays there, trying to breathe.

~

The room is full, everyone sitting around the long table, and James takes them in one by one. Steve is watching him from the corner of his eye with a hard look, almost a glare. He's pissed, and for good reason, but James has no energy to spare to that right now, not when Clint is missing.

Across from him sits Virginia Potts, who insisted that James call her Pepper, back straight and jaw clenched. She's just as thrown as James is, for having Tony snatched away from her. Clint's told him about her, about the serum running through her veins that makes her as powerful as it does dangerous.

Next to Pepper there's Bruce Banner, the other man affected by a bastardization of Steve's serum. Another one that's too volatile to be around civilization. Bruce rubs at his eyes, cleans his glasses, rubs at his eyes again.

At the other end of the table a woman named Hill briefs them on what she, Coulson, and May found in the files from the Sokovia base while the Avengers were regrouping after the fight.

"It's two of them," Hill says. "Twins. Wanda and Pietro Maximoff, orphaned at ten."

"They have abilities," Steve comments.

"Yes, increased metabolism and improved thermal homeostasis for him. She does some neuro-interfacing, telekinesis, mental manipulation."

James looks at her just as funny as everyone else in the room.

Hill clears her throat. "He's fast and she's weird."

"The witch inserted visions into our minds," Thor adds from where he's sitting on James' other side. The hammer rests between them on the floor and James is grateful Thor's agreed to keep an eye on him.

Pepper twitches and Natasha pats her hand, which earns her a wobbly smile.

"How did they end up in Strucker's hands?" Sam asks.

"File says they volunteered," Hill says with a grimace. "I don't know what would drive them to do such a thing."

"We've brought icers for everyone if you want to avoid live rounds," Coulson adds from where he's sitting next to Hill. "Agent May is equipping your two quinjets with them as we speak. As we are now, I can't throw agents in this fight, we're low in numbers as it is, but we'll provide tech backup and monitoring."

"Thank you," Steve says.

"So what's the plan?" Bruce asks. "Do we even know where Strucker took them? Or why?"

"I don't know about the why," Natasha replies, "but I think they're in Siberia."

She gives them the details of the location in short, clipped words. James inhales. Exhales. Watches her suffer, and all because of him. Because he couldn't stay put.

They don't have much information right now and James listens to their comments and ideas, but truth is they can only speculate. Two things he knows, with a higher probability of verity. Strucker is somehow involved with the infinity gems and Tony is a genius with tech. There must be a connection.

Coulson's phone pings several times in rapid succession and he checks it. His eyes widen and narrow as he reads the messages.

"Just got word," Coulson says, "two weird sightings happened yesterday in South Africa, around the same time you raided the Sokovian base. A strange woman and a hurricane hit a smuggling ring, leaving insanity behind."

"Does it say why?" James' mouth asks without him and everyone turns to look at him.

"They made off with contraband vibranium. A lot of it."

"What would Strucker want with so much vibranium?" Hill asks.

"No idea," Coulson replies.

Oh but it ties with the rest of the clues. Maybe their target wasn't Clint, but Tony, who can build things. Or maybe they both were.

"All right," Steve says. "Suit up."

"No."

Steve frowns at James. "No?"

"No," James repeats. He turns to Thor. "The infinity gems are connected, we need more information. Did Jane and Erik find out anything else?"

"I'll go see. There was also something in the witch's vision that requires answers I do not posses," Thor says.

"Can I join you?" Bruce asks from the other side of the table. "Don't get me wrong," he tells the room, "as much as I want to go get Tony and Clint back, you all saw what she did to James here. I think we can all agree we don't want her messing with the Other guy."

"He's right," Natasha adds.

"There are enough fighters left to go to the silo," James continues. "Steve, Sam, Natasha?"

"Me, too," Pepper says while Sam and Natasha nod.

James turns to Coulson and Hill. "Go to South Africa, see if they took anything else. If they're not in Siberia, we'll need another lead."

Steve keeps watching him, eyes wide, while Coulson agrees with the plan.

"And I hope you have a strong container for me around here," James finishes.

"I've got one," Bruce throws with a smirk and James can't help matching it.

Both he and Thor are gone on the trails of Coulson and Hill, which leave Steve, Sam, Natasha, and Pepper in the room with James, under a blanket of heavy silence.

"Who are you?" Steve finally rasps, but it's clear he didn't mean that to come out because he coughs in his fist awkwardly, while Sam laughs.

"If you find out let me know," James deadpans.

Natasha huffs at him with a small head shake while Sam quips "He's a jerk, just like you said."

"You're telling people I'm a jerk?" James raises an eyebrow at Steve. "Still doing stupid things I see."

Steve barks out a laugh, but he chokes on the sound as it turns wet. He covers his face, elbows on the table, breaths rugged and audible in the awkwardness that descends upon the room. This was not what James was expecting and it forms a lump in his throat. He tries to swallow around it, to find words for Steve, but he isn't even sure if he should pat his shoulder. Should touch.

"He's been looking for you," comes in gentle words over the table and James turns to look at Pepper.

"He shouldn't, I'm dangerous," he says.

"James--" Natasha starts, but he interrupts.

"Clint and Tony were taken because of me."

"That's not true," Natasha presses. "If the girl didn't get to you, she would've gotten to Tony or worse, to Bruce. You were easier to contain."

A frown settles on James' forehead. She's making sense, but the tight knot in his stomach insisting he is at fault refuses to untwist. Next to him, Sam says something low to Steve and James forces himself not to listen. Instead, he turns his attention to Pepper, who's watching him intently.

"I'm not blaming you," she says, like she hears his thoughts. Perhaps she does, in a way, she seems perceptive. "So let's focus on getting them back."

She's right.

Steve clears his throat, wiping at his face. James doesn't dare look. Not now, he needs to keep his head clear.

"I might have been to the silo," he says, "but I don't remember more than what Natasha told you already. You should be careful going in, if they used that place to hold me, it probably has several security layers."

"You're coming with us," Steve says, voice hoarse over a sniff.

"I can't." James insists. He receives incredulous stares from across the table and he's pretty sure that, on Steve's other side, Sam's doing the same. "No matter how much I want to go, I'll put Clint and Tony in more danger, all of you too."

"And if I were to go rogue you think I wouldn't be able to take you all out?" Natasha returns.

James huffs. She's right.

"Bucky, please."

This time he has to look. Has to see Steve's face, and it's covered in a sort of anguish that roots James to the spot, tongue heavy and numb. He can't find the strength to say 'I'm not your Bucky.'

"We stand a better chance with you," Pepper adds. "You might remember something."

"If there were a way to ensure you'll knock me out if I get sidetracked--"

"If I may interrupt," JARVIS' disembodied voice drifts from high speakers.

"Please do," Pepper says.

"Sir has build a remote controlled micro-pump unit that you might find useful," the AI continues.

Pepper snaps her fingers. "He did, for Bruce! But the tranquilizers don't work on him, so--"

"They might work on James," Natasha surmises.

James blinks. Perhaps he can join them after all.

~

"Are you sure you know how to do this?" Pepper asks.

"Well," Sam says, fiddling with the scalpel, "I've cut into things before."

James raises an eyebrow as he rolls up his right sleeve. "Don't cut too much, it's my last arm," he says.

Steve chokes and coughs loudly from where he's observing to the side.

"Cut it out," Natasha says, monotone, but James hears the concern hidden underneath.

"The whole thing?" Sam returns, then cleans a bit of skin on James' forearm with rubbing alcohol.

"Samuel," Natasha warns and Sam lifts his gloved hands in surrender, one holding the scalpel and the other the device.

It's half the size of a penny, about as thick. The case is not transparent, so James can't see inside, but Natasha deems it safe, and he trusts her.

The incision is more a slight discomfort than anything and by the time Sam's finished, James' skin is already closing itself back up. The pump sits deep enough to not be visible, but not as deep as not to feel it. James is rolling his sleeve back down when another forearm appears on the table next to him, wrist thin and fingers long.

"There's a spare one left," Pepper says, "do me, too."

Sam looks from her to Natasha and then Steve.

"You sure about this?" Natasha ask her and Pepper nods.

"If I go off the rails, I'm taking half a city with me, so yes."

"The serum's stable," Natasha counters, but it falls flat.

Steve is uncharacteristically silent, watching everything with a grim set to his face.

"Come on, Mr. Wilson," Pepper says. "This is technically my lab, my scalpels, and my tech."

"If you insist," Sam returns. "And call me Sam."

Pepper smiles, then barely cringes as Sam repeats the procedure. Her healing is even more accelerated than James' and Sam's eyes widen, part fascination, part apprehension.

~

Shortly after, Pepper leaves the room and Sam follows in search of food. They could all use some nourishment, especially since they're preparing to depart in a couple of hours. James would very much like to leave right now, but they need to make sure they're not running into an ambush, so they're waiting for a satellite to pass over the silo's coordinates. JARVIS has already hacked itself into the uplink of a weather station.

James rolls up his sleeve, forearm back on the table again, watches the tattoo to center himself before sparing a glance at Steve's back. He's been standing there looking out the window, shoulders tense, for minutes now, but James has no idea what to say to him.

Natasha slides her rolling chair closer to James' and runs her palm over his skin, from elbow to the wrist, then traces the lines of Nemo with her fingertips. It drains the strain of losing himself, somewhat. He's been needing touch, he realizes, touch that Clint's been giving him freely. Now that it's missing, James recognizes its importance, how much it's helped him.

"I think this will work on you," Natasha says, her other palm cupping the incision site. "They had to dose you about four times the regular amount of anesthetic on the operating table, but JARVIS' records say it's stronger than that."

James nods with a swallow. "It's different," he breathes. "To hurt someone because I want to, than to be made to."

"I know," she says, just as quietly.

Next to the window, Steve lets out a harsh exhale along with a mutter that sounds like 'operating table' and he rubs at his forehead, back hunched.

"I don't know what to say to him," James whispers, as low as he can.

She considers this, head tilted, eyes piercing, before leaning closer.

"How about giving him a hug?" she suggests. "Afterwards, we'll take a few minutes to prepare, like I do with Clint."

That actually... is a great idea. His stomach squirms as he stands.

"I'll wait outside," Natasha says and lets go of him.

It takes a few inhales for James to start moving, but he makes his way to Steve, touches his shoulder. His face is so open and raw, like he's about to crumble. When she died, Steve clung to him for hours, lost like he is now. But he buried his mother alone, closed off his suffering afterwards. The memory is fleeting, of them on the doorstep of Steve's apartment, brushing off Bucky to prove the world he's not weak. But it tells so much, about who Steve is, how he's been a constant in that previous life. About how Steve will swallow his own loneliness, in silence.

He shifts closer, pulls at Steve's arms until they wrap around his middle, and does the same himself, squeezing tightly around Steve's shoulders. James counts a second, two, three, and Steve catches on.

There are no words between them, just this offering that James makes to the memory of Bucky Barnes, to what Steve has meant to him.

Still means to James.

He should've done this sooner.

Behind the glass wall of the lab Natasha watches them, a knowing look on her face and James blinks his thanks. She gestures to the side - she'll wait for him that way - and James waves.

"I--" Steve starts, but chokes on the sound.

"Let's talk later, after they're safe," James says.

Steve nods, burying his face against James' neck. Before he knows it, the metal of his fingers is rubbing through Steve's hair, kneading the muscles of his shoulders, just like he used to, time and time again.

~

James finds Natasha in one of the spare bedrooms that are attached to the penthouse. It's where visitors sleep when they're here and James takes a moment to look around. It seems expensive, but sparse in an utilitarian way, suited for soldiers and assassins and agents. Perhaps Tony is not as bad at understanding people as he claims.

Natasha is sitting on the edge of the bed and when she pats the spot next to her, James takes it. She moves closer, until their arms brush, then threads her fingers through his flesh ones.

"Do you know what a sin eater is?" she asks and James shakes his head. "It's a myth, of a creature that takes away the misgivings of others. In a way, we are the same. We do vile things to vile men so that the bright ones can still live in the light."

"I taught him that," James rasps, aware of how this affected both Clint and Natasha and the lives they took. The lives they saved. Those they protected.

"I know now," she says, words quiet. She twists, one movement, and she's sitting on his thighs, palms on his shoulders, inviting.

"Can I?"

"Yes," she breathes, smiling.

James wraps himself around her. She's never let him do this before, and James understands how rare it is, so he revels in it. Draws strength.

"He's not my Nemo anymore," Natasha whispers, head resting on his shoulder.

Which yes, it's true, she has to share him with James now. But--

"He's not your only Nemo," he offers.

She straightens enough to look at his face, small wonder in her eyes. "Yes?"

"Da, moy pauchok." _("Yes, my little spider.")_

She hums, pleased, before curling back against him and James closes his eyes. Of course, how could she not know, she is the legacy of Nemo, both of them.

~

The quinjet is quiet as the five of them fly over the Pacific. Shorter route, chosen after the satellite images came through. They'll approach from the east, land behind a ridge, then tread their way through snow covered ground to the silo. Right now, though, they must wait and tension increases in the silence.

James pulls the remote of his tranq pump from his pocket, considering his decision. It makes sense, it's the only logical choice, but he still spares a long look to Sam before he hands it over.

It earns him a surprised reaction as Sam takes it. "Me? Really?"

"You're the only objective one here," James tells him.

"But I hate your guts--"

"You don't," James interrupts.

"He doesn't," Steve adds, a smirk playing on half his mouth, which makes Sam tut at him with fake annoyance.

Two seats over, Pepper takes hers out as well and hands it over to Steve, who raises his eyebrows at her. He says something, she replies, but James isn't listening, because Sam changes his seat to the one next to him. He's staring at James, clearly wanting to say something, but his mouth moves without words.

"There's no malice in you," James tells him.

Sam is quiet for long minutes, studying the remote in his palm.

"When this is over, I'm pressing the button," he jokes.

"Sure," James says.

"Don't think I won't."

James elbows him, receives one back, and that's that. Forgiveness.

~

A while later, after they've been talking about Wanda's power, Steve recalls out loud what he's seen. His fear, of losing the world he knew, of losing Bucky and Peggy and everything else. And in that vision, resentment for Clint who went back where Steve can never go.

"Wait," Natasha says, "I didn't see my fears. I--" She swallows. "I was interrogating Clint on the whereabouts of the time stone."

It clicks into place.

"So they didn't come after Clint, not at first," Steve concludes. "They wanted the scepter, but decided to grab Clint when Wanda found out he’d had contact with the stone."

"I think they wanted Tony, too," James says, receiving questioning looks. "He creates things," he continues, counting on his fingers, "they stole vibranium, they have the mind stone. Strucker is building something."

"This is Afghanistan all over again," Pepper breathes.

"We'll get him back," Natasha tells her, probably for the twentieth time in the past couple of hours.

The console in the cockpit pings with an incoming message and James moves to open a channel.

"This is May," comes from the line as Steve joins him in the co-pilot chair.

"You're on speaker, Agent May."

"Eight hours ago a geneticist in South Korea was abducted. Her name is Helen Cho and she--"

"Worked with Tony to stabilize my condition," Pepper finishes for May.

"Exactly. Dr. Cho has been working on a project called Cradle. We're not sure what it does yet," May says.

"It regenerates tissue," Pepper provides. "She's been researching how to heal impact wounds by printing living cells. She's been studying my serum for months."

"I didn't know about this," Steve says.

"She just started testing a prototype six months ago, still working out quirks."

"It's how this got better so quickly," Natasha adds with a pat to her shoulder and a smirk.

"We believe it was the twins that took her and some equipment. I'm flying there now to see if they left anything behind, but I think you'll get to your target before I reach Seoul. May out."

The space falls into silence again as they absorb the implications of this information. It doesn't bode well.

~

The sky is dark with thick clouds above them, even though the day is barely reaching noon. The air is cold and still, foreboding of snow falling soon, a calm moment before nature unleashes its wrath upon the land. The frost under James' boot crunches against the gray bits of stone that sprinkle the white ground.

Ahead, the entrance to the missile bunker sits, heavy and immutable, under an awning dug into the bedrock.

Behind that door there used to be pain.

He used to struggle against it until they had to drag him through in chains. He remembers it, now that it's sitting in front of him. A long scratch mars the surface of the peeling paint, formed of four thinner gashes. He almost broke the fingers of the metal hand that day.

Right after Clint gave him his tattoo. His name. His purpose.

He didn't know it then, that Clint was meeting him inside, to help him keep it.

Memories rearrange, the wetness of his eyes drying fast against the freezing air, against the cryo chamber closing around him.

James inhales, forces his mind to focus on the present.

Clint is now inside as well, and today James will pass through those doors of his own volition. He looks at his companions, squaring their shoulders and readying their weapons.

Time to go, get Nemo out.

Bring his soul back home.

~

 


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again everyone.  
> With each chapter, we're coming closer to the final. It's all very exciting!  
> Many thanks again to Tanouska for the critical editing eye (this chapter was hard, heh) and everyone else that I've been stressing with the plot :) Without you we wouldn't have this fic, guys. And also without the wonderful comments (please don't stop *bribes with fic*).  
> Enjoy & hope your week is going well and easy! o/

2014

Pepper stands in front of them, in all her blazing magnificence, eyes like molten metal, grin as bright as the sun, scorching in its intensity. She shouts, raw enough to grate through James' body all the way down his spine, before rushing toward the bunker.

The few HYDRA agents aiming at them in front of the entrance scramble out of her way, but it's too late. Metal connects with an unstoppable blistering force and the great sheets of steel crack and groan under her blaze. It's enough to short out the locking mechanisms and Pepper calms slowly. Her skin, burnt like a lava river, is regenerating, but veins of fire still surge over her being.

She's incredible and James shivers.

He hurries along, quickly followed inside by Natasha and they take out the first two men coming at them. The space is too small for a proper fight, and their opponents seem to know this, because no others come to meet them. Instead, they wait behind the second layer of doors. By now Steve and Sam are behind them, while Pepper melts obstacles again. This time, she's focusing her energy in the palm of her hand, cupped over the hinges. The frame gives and the door falls with a loud bang against the cement floor.

On the other side, the group of guards waiting for them takes one step back in unison and James smiles.

Payback.

He steps through first. As gently as possible, he twirls Clint's staff in his flesh hand, makes a calibrating fist with the other, and the plates click, one by one, in the dusty silence.

Twirl... twirl... step, run, run, hit, kill!

Chaos descends in a cacophony of screams and broken bones, the smell of blood mingling with the stink of burning flesh.

Time passes, either too quickly or too slowly; James is too engaged from all sides to comprehend. They all are. It appears that Strucker's forces are made of what was left of HYDRA after the reveal, plus many others, most likely hired. This fight is meant to keep them up here, to make them waste precious time. Natasha understands this, because she makes her way to him.

"Get down there," she tells him, "we'll be right behind."

Steve rolls their way, raises to his feet with a groan. "I've got a better idea," he says. "I'll draw them toward the elevator, you two take the ventilation shaft there," and he tips his chin to the side.

Natasha sidles over, takes a look, and nods. "It's large enough," she says, "but--"

"Look," Steve stops her, "Strucker knows we're here and he's trying to keep us away from whatever he's doing. These guys aren't a challenge, there's just too many of them. I have more stamina, you go, we'll follow."

He grabs at James' shoulder, gives it a squeeze, and James matches it.

This trust, it changes things. Steve might accept what he's become.

~

The screams from upstairs still echo through the empty corridors as James and Natasha make their way toward the main silo. The space had been modified to hold the chair and the other equipment. James remembers a tunnel running through one side, with rail tracks, through which they used to transport the cryo chamber, so they make their way through there. Earlier, they've tried breaching through the upper catwalk, but there was Wanda Maximoff, pacing the space, so James and Natasha backtracked before she could sense them.

There's someone talking as they approach the exit of the narrow tunnel, and Natasha dips low on one side, James on the other.

The room stretches round and tall with a metal grate floor across its expanse. Beneath that, a chasm that travels down to the bottom of the pit. James however, is relieved by the sight of the dismantled chair stacked to the side. In the center, where it used to sit, there's now a table with a body laid on top. It looks human, but it's made of metal, resembling Tony's suit more than anything. Over it, the arm of a machine travels back and forth, mounted on a stand rolling on the ground next to the table, while a woman is pushing buttons on its handheld console. She looks scared, fingers shaky, eyes wide, as she turns her head, and James recognizes her from the photograph May sent. Helen Cho. And the machine must be her Cradle.

So what is Strucker doing? Combining vibranium with tissue to create a... what?

Natasha gestures and James follows her gaze until his own falls on Clint. In a containment chamber made of glass and metal, he's standing, doesn't look hurt. His clothes are splattered with blood, arterial spray marring the side of his neck and a portion of his chin. His knuckles are bloody and his chest is expanding too much with his breaths. He might seem calm, but he isn't.

Behind Clint, Tony is curled up in a corner, eyes shifting with too many things in them. Pain. Hurt. James swallows.

Strucker is surveying the space from the open observation deck slightly elevated over the center of the room, his back to James and Nat's location. There are one, two... six more guards here, weapons ready. And, of course, the fast man, Pietro Maximoff, buzzing around with unspent energy in a way that makes Strucker chastise him from time to time.

But where is the scepter? James looks back at Clint. He hasn't moved from his position facing Strucker, but his eyes sometimes shift downward and to the side-- ah. The scepter is on a table, behind a dusty machine, the only part visible to James the tip of its blade.

He and Natasha rapidly settle on a plan and put it into immediate action. James attacks Strucker, drawing Pietro's attention, as well as the other guards'. He doesn't manage to give a fatal blow, but it's worth it, because during his distraction Natasha sneaks to the cage and releases Clint who jumps into the fray with James.

They share the staff, snap necks and break bones. There's a sort of harmony that takes over as they fight, culminating in a merry shout that reverberates from the tall ceiling as Sam swoops down.

Pepper runs onto the high catwalk, Steve behind her, and that sets Wanda into motion, because she waves her hands and a multitude of metal pieces and glass fly toward them. Something slams into James but he parries it, only to punch the air. Next to him, Clint spins his staff toward nothing and--

Pietro falls to the ground with a groan.

"Yeah, I see you weren't expecting that either," Clint says. "Stay down."

The kid flips him off before jumping to his feet, and James turns his head to find himself in front of the nozzle of a gun, Strucker at its other end.

"The famous fist of HYDRA," Strucker drawls, accent heavy. "Never thought I'd see you back here. Unfortunately, I have no use for you--"

James grabs the gun from his hand and squeezes it between his metal fingers before Strucker has time to gasp. It doesn't bend much, but enough to make it useless, and James drops it on the floor. The guard standing behind Strucker runs and James grins.

"You were saying?"

Strucker lifts his chin in challenge. "You are too late anyway. God is returning and you can't stop it."

He looks up while James frowns at his obvious madness.

"Now," Strucker says.

Electricity runs through James from his soles to the top of his head. It's not as painful as the corrections, only lasts a fraction of a second, but it's enough to drop him to the floor, his cheek on the heated metal grate. A few moans travel his way and James looks around to find the Avengers, including Cho, in various states of distress. The jolt hit them all, even Sam, but not Tony who's been inside the glass container the whole time, with Pepper guarding its door.

Above them, Strucker and Pietro are hovering on the tendrils of Wanda's magic before she sets them down to the ground.

James tries to move, but it's hard to make his muscles cooperate. There must have been something added to the current, something strong enough to even knock Steve down. His puzzling is answered when Strucker pries open the rusty door of an electrical panel and, after grabbing a pair of pliers hanging off the side, he removes a blue oval gem from it.

James looks at Clint then, and he gets it. The scepter was just a piece of metal on that table, Clint's concern meant not for the stone's presence, but for its absence. The shudder that passes through James is reverberating the ache through his entire body and he forces himself to breathe slower.

"Bring him here," Strucker says and Wanda waves a hand, causing Tony to slide out of the chamber.

Pepper tries to move, but Pietro drags her back. The shock drained the Extremis energy out of her, at least temporarily, so she's just as helpless as the rest of them. Not even the metal arm responds, and James splits his attention between focusing its gears into motion and what is happening near the center of the room.

Tony fights against the pull, but he's clearly been too affected by everything to be even remotely successful and soon he's standing next to Strucker, the stone, and the body on the table. On the floor, Cho moans in pain and Strucker chuckles, pleased. James will wipe that smirk off his face. Well, not unless Clint gets there first, because Clint is glaring with an intensity rivaling the jolt they all just got.

"Let's hope our dear doctor finished, otherwise I wouldn't want to be her when god returns," Strucker says as he pushes the Cradle away.

Oh, great. James hasn't imagined the madness.

"Now, Mr. Stark--"

"I'm not helping you," Tony interrupts.

"You don't have a choice," Strucker returns, just as Wanda draws closer to Tony, scarlet magic already fluttering at the tips of her fingers.

That's when one of Tony's hands pushes his t-shirt up to reveal the glowing arc reactor in his chest. His other hand flies to the scar tissue around its edges, and against Tony's distress, he scrabbles there until red smears his fingers.

"Ok, ok!" Tony shouts, strained.

He seems to know what Strucker wants, must have been requested the same before they got here, must be why Clint was protecting him. Next to him, Clint's exhale is harsh as Tony, fingertips red, removes the reactor from his chest, leaving behind a gaping hole.

James uselessly tries to will the arm into motion, with the nerve endings connected to it, but they're all numb at the moment.

Strucker instructs Tony to power another machine, this one connected to the body on the table with thick cables, running into its neck, its arms and legs. Tony shakes as he complies, and James can almost feel his pain. He's talked about this with Tony, how they're in the cyborg club, and why. Now Tony is dying, in front of James, and they can't do anything about it.

Tony finishes soon enough, and the machine comes to life as he slides to the floor, breaths ragged and chest barely moving in hitches. James growls, pushes, pulls, screams inside himself because not even the muscles of his neck are working right now.

Next to the body, a mangle of vibranium and exposed tissue that looks more like a skinned human than a robot, Strucker laughs, his free hand extended in reverence, almost there but not touching. And then he brings the stone close to the body's head, where a slot opens... fuck. That thing does not need a body.

"God will be here soon," Strucker says. "His essence remains in the jewel, his reign eternal, rightfully his. Loki, we're ready for you!"

Finally, something moves inside the arm, a plate shifts, just as Strucker drops the stone into the niche, just as the walls shake with an explosion.

James pushes again against the metal of the grate and he sluggishly lifts his upper body, just in time to see an IronMan suit fly in from above, painted gray instead of red. Ah, not IronMan. The other James, Col. Rhodes.

"You thought you could save Tony without me?" comes from the suit's speakers.

On the ground, Pepper growls something that might be "you weren't answering" and that's when Rhodes sees Tony because he flies over, knocking Strucker away and firing a repulsor shot at Wanda, who's thrown across the space.

In the meantime, Steve's managed to get to to his knees, while Pepper's growls are turning more into shouts with each sound, her body pulsing hotter second by second. James wouldn't want to be in her path right now, especially if he were in Strucker's shoes.

Clint, Natasha, and Sam are still immobile, so is Cho, but James pushes himself up as well. He turns to Clint with difficulty, but Clint mumbles a 'ngh,' eyes shifting toward the no doubt dangerous experiment on the table. Ok, Clint's fine, focus on the problem. Hearing Loki's name is in no way reassuring.

Rhodes, out of his suit already, is scrambling to remove the reactor from it and connect it to Tony, so James walks to the table. Strucker tries to intercept, but Pepper rushes at him in all her fiery rage, while Steve catches onto a speeding Pietro only to be thrown aside with him, right across Wanda's path, who falls back with them. It would be funny if the threat of Loki weren't hanging over their heads.

James catches onto a cable that connects to the body, but is thrown back by a discharge. By the time he's shaking the fog away, the others have climbed to their feet again and Tony's breathing steadily. Natasha is facing Wanda, talking to her rather than fighting, while Sam's doing the same with Pietro, who Steve's holding still with quite a lot of effort.

Clint shoves his staff into the machine at the head of the table, and electric arcs bloom around them, both short and wide. James rolls away from one that surges through the grate, and he feels its effect, but only a tingling one compared to their earlier hit. Thankfully, Rhodes and Tony have dragged Cho aside and now only Clint stands there, a grimace on his face, amongst the white tendrils of electricity. James steps toward him, just as Clint steps back, and James can finally touch, take his hand, confirm he's alive.

Their reprieve is short lived, though, because thunder rolls above them and a lighting bolt, a real one this time, pierces through the roof of the silo. Debris falls in bits, followed by the red flutter of Thor's cape, who flies down and, against everyone's shouted protests, drops more lighting onto the table, his hammer alight with energy.

Time slows to a crawl, as they watch the being on the table come to life. Its body, a faded purple inside streaks of charcoal, crouches on the metal surface defensively, the gem on its forehead shining yellow--of course. The mind stone is yellow, like a sun over blue waters. Clint's gasp makes James step closer to him, fingers clutching at Clint's hand, heart thundering in his chest.

There's a spot of brightness to James' left as Pepper staggers closer, skin alight with smoldering heat. Behind her, Strucker lies on the floor, face down, and James can't tell if he's breathing or not. But Pepper's approach is immediately followed by the rapid movement of Pietro, who must've taken advantage of the surprise and wiggled out of Steve's hold. It sets the creature into motion, because, as soon as Pietro extends a hand toward the table, it lashes out.

From the other side of the room Wanda's scarlet mist pushes at the vibranium being, Pietro's name on her lips.

And chaos descends.

For about twenty eight seconds in total, because whatever this purple apparition is, it's too strong, for any of them, managing to throw them off with mere flicks of its wrists. Telekinesis. They need to change their methods, just running at it is clearly not going to work. And if this is indeed Loki, letting him loose in the world is a bad idea.

Thor is the first to act on that observation, because he yells "Wait!" His arms spread, hammer gently set on the ground, Thor takes a step toward the being, who's now suspended in mid air, crowded against the wall of the silo. Its mechanical eyes observe the demigod and everyone else surrounding them, for an interminable moment, before it blinks.

"This is... awkward," it says.

The creature lowers its body to stand on the floor and, as it does, the particles it's made of shift into a simulacrum of clothing, turning it from an appearance of exposed muscles to one of a charcoal cased android. Its face, though, remains balanced between the artificial purple flesh and the grayness of vibranium.

Thor breathes, relief obvious in his stance, and the creature tilts its head while observing him. Next they know, a cape flutters on its back, matching Thor's. Steve takes a step closer, the same stricken surprise that they all feel on his features.

"Thor," Steve says, "what did you do?"

"I had a vision," Thor explains. "The fabric of reality being torn apart and at fault was that," he says, pointing at the gem on the creature's forehead.

"The mind stone," Natasha comments.

"Yes," Thor confirms. "Whatever purpose Strucker intended for it, he would've failed, bringing unparalleled destruction upon all realms."

"I can attest to that," the being says. "The convergence of powers involved in bringing it to this point in space and time has been barely contained. Thank you," it tells Thor.

"You're wrong," Wanda says, taking a step closer. "He wanted--"

"Look into my mind," the creature interrupts.

Wanda blinks, but doesn't move. Next to James, Clint growls low in his throat.

"Look," Thor says, and the witch startles.

She does go closer, though, until she can touch the being's arm, fingertips bleeding red into the air. It doesn't seem like much, not at first, but her eyes widen with each fraction of a second, each thought she's no doubt untangling from its mind.

"No," Wanda says, staggering backward, and Pietro rushes to support her.

It's then that her hand goes to her brother's forehead, relaying whatever it was that shocked her, and Pietro pales. Their distress is obvious in the way Wanda shakes her head, breaths ragged, while Pietro pulls her away, toward a darker part of the room. James turns his attention back toward the creature, who continues studying them, one by one.

"Why does your vision sound like Loki?" Tony asks from where he's been keeping Cho away from the danger of the fight.

Oh. Oh, that explains the tension doubling in Clint's frame next to James ever since the being opened its mouth and spoke.

"If the stone is so destructive, why'd you give it to him?" Rhodes adds from next to Pepper, whose burning has slowed to merely a glimmering kindle.

"You think I am Loki," the creature says.

"You're not?" Tony asks.

"I'm not Loki. I am..." It looks around, then its eyes seem to focus away from everything, turning inward, if that's even possible for a machine. It seems lost for a moment, before lifting its chin. "I am," it declares.

A huff travels out of James' throat. How familiar, this sentiment.

"This is not my brother," Thor confirms. "Loki is gone."

"He is not the danger," Wanda's voice drifts over, her features in shadow, save for her bright red eyes.

"Your word means nothing," Clint counters. "Not after what you did to my friends."

"We're sorry," Pietro says while Wanda sobs, the sound loud enough to travel in an echo against the walls of the silo, causing everyone to follow it upwards with they eyes.

A useless motion, but it draws their attention to the cold winter air descending upon them. From above, through the hole in the ceiling, faint light falls down and with it a snowflake. It dances in the dimness of the space, right next to the creature's shoulder, and it extends its metal fingers toward it. Another flake follows, and another. James barely takes two breaths before the flurry stops as an outside obstacle hovers over the breach in the ground.

"Good afternoon, sir," JARVIS' voice reaches them with a reverberating tone, "it's good to see you alive."

"Buddy!" Tony exclaims, smile on his face, while Pepper sidles closer.

"Director Fury relays his backup," JARVIS continues.

"Say thanks," Natasha responds, "but to stay put. We have a situation here."

The creature turns to her and James almost takes a step forward. Given Clint's aborted shift, he intended the same, but they're both waiting to see what happens, ready to strike if need be.

"Would you prefer this better?" the being asks, JARVIS' voice coming from its lips.

Tony scoffs at it.

"My vision," Thor interjects, "warned of destruction. With it in his hands," he gestures toward the android, "the universe is safe."

"Is it?" Steve asks, readying his shield with a step forward.

"If you're wrong about this," Sam tells Thor, which draws the creature's attention toward him.

"What would you do?" it asks, watching them all again with an intensity that shouldn't be possible for a machine.

James shivers, a few plans to contain it already working around in his head. The being looks away, blinks again, just as slowly as the first time. It understands.

"I do not wish for death," the creatures says, sounding like a mix of all their voices, word by word, syllable by syllable, "not my own and not anyone's."

It paces amongst them, cape shimmering in a translucent flicker of yellow around its body, reminding James of the reflection the sun in his own vision had over the blue ocean.

"I am not what you are," it whispers, coming to a stop in front of James and Clint. "Like some of you are not what you are." It looks at its hands again. "Maybe I am a monster. I wouldn't know it if I was. Would you?"

"Yes," Clint says.

"But only through the values of others," it counters, then extends an arm to the side.

Mjolnir flies, like it usually does, toward the hand waiting for it, but this time it's not Thor calling.

"There is no way to make you trust me," the being says.

Yet, its actions cause a shift in everyone, its words clearly disbelieved already. The hammer only trusts those worthy of it, those worthy of ruling Asgard, capable of kind and just greatness.

"You seem to have that handled," James' mouth says without him, but it draws amusement from the creature.

It hands the hammer over to Thor before looking back at James. "So do you."

"Hey now," Steve starts, but the being interrupts.

"Things must be set right," it says, looking at Clint too intently to bode well, and that means... that means...

James shifts to stand between them.

No.

No, it will not take Nemo away. It will not undo the past.

The touch of its vibranium finger on James' forehead is cold and James watches his own exhale steam into the frosted air.

He reels back from it, into the safety of Clint's arms, who catches James by the middle.

But it's too late.

The world around them tilts and stretches, sound pitching high, then low, before it shudders to a halt. James shakes the dizziness from his head, as Clint slots himself against James' right side. His arm is still around James, solid and reassuring, and he matches the position, flesh hand clutching at Clint's shoulder.

An ugly sound comes from Clint at the sight in front of them, where a tall, slender man grins at the scepter in his hand. James recognizes Loki from the footage he's seen during his convalescence. In front of Loki, Strucker kneels, while a third man holds Strucker's head still. His back is turned to them, but James recognizes SHIELD's black tac uniform on him. The baron's screams are silent as the scepter's tip touches his forehead, but his agony is short lived, because as soon as a pulse of blue light passes through, Strucker is released and he crumbles to the ground.

That's when the other man turns.

James can hear the moment Clint's breath sticks to his throat, audibly so, because--because there's Clint. Eyes an unnatural blue and obedience in his stance.

And all James can do is catch the Clint next to him as his knees give under Loki's green gaze, hold him upright as he braces for a fight.

~


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!  
> Many thanks again to Tanouska and Kat. Many many thanks. :)  
> We are close to the end. It's exciting! If all goes to plan and the muses cooperate, the next chapter should come out next Monday!  
> Let me know what you think of this one, it was a pretty hard one :)  
> Enjoy & have an amazing week there!  
> (Minor correction for continuity in chapter 20 when they talk about the Cradle; well, it happens on a fic this size.)

There's too much air, just as there's too little, like the atmosphere is suspended between going down or going up and it pulls James everywhere with it. But he breathes in, pushes through the sudden panic, and holds Clint up. His senses stretch, taking in the space, counting combatants, searching for cover, as Loki turns his head toward them.

They're in a dark room, quite large, although more long than wide, littered with columns in such a way that it feels crowded. Plenty of places to dive behind, away from the soldiers and scientists milling about, even though the spaces between columns are filled with equipment. Yet nobody is paying attention to them but the Asgardian demigod, and their single-focus work is eerie in a way that raises the hairs on the back of James' neck.

To the left, the flashes and sparks of welding catch at the corner of James' attention, but he holds his sight on Loki, who turns to fully face them.

He strides, in long steps, to where James and Clint are standing, and James can feel Clint's frame tense against his. James will fight with everything he has, so will Clint. He knows this even though he doesn't dare take his eyes off of Loki.

Four more steps.

Then three, and two, and--

Loki passes through them.

Not around, or over, or under, but through, like a specter, and he does so at the same moment a loud "Ha!" comes from behind. James and Clint spin around to be met with Loki's back as he walks away, right next to Loki's grinning face.

It's two of them.

James braces himself, heels digging into the dusty gravel that covers the ground. The Loki that's still looking at them rolls his eyes.

"There's no need for that," he says, moving closer.

Before James can react, Loki swings his arm and his fingers pass right through Clint's shoulder. James straightens while Clint looks up at Loki, blinks.

"This is not the past," Clint says, voicing James' realization as well.

Loki smiles again, hands behind his back, smug in his--whatever this is. James wants to punch him.

"Merely a memory," Loki says, gaze drifting around the space.

It's then that the blue-eyed obedient Clint of the past follows in the first Loki's footsteps, passing through them, and Clint, the real one, recoils.

"Why this memory?" he asks, voice heavy and uneven and James shudders.

He knows exactly how it feels, the fear creeping up Clint's spine, the disgust at what he's done, the anger toward his manipulator, the deep seated knowledge that nothing will be the same after this perversion.

"This is where events were set in motion," Loki says. "More or less, really, but--" he rolls a wrist instead of explaining.

"What do you want, Loki?" Clint growls low in his throat and James exhales through his nose.

"Me?" Loki says, pointing at himself with a fake display of innocence. "Oh, I'm not Loki."

Clint scoffs, James snorts, and Loki flips his hand back and forth. It's very unfitting for a prince of Asgard.

"I'm just..." he continues, then pauses to think it over, "an avatar. I'm here because--"

"I don't care," Clint interrupts. "Take us back."

"Back?" Not-Loki repeats, eyebrows raised. "You're still where you were before my kindred ferried your minds to me."

"We're imagining this?" James asks.

"Yes."

Clint groans, palms rubbing at his face, before he looks at James. "At least I'm not going crazy alone."

Not-Loki tuts, clasping his hands behind his back again. "As I was saying, I'm here to offer you an explanation and an apology."

Clint crosses his arms, scowl set on his face. "You're gonna apologize for the brainwash?"

Instead of answering, Not-Loki smiles, eyes drifting to look at something and James turns around, following his line of sight, until his own gaze falls on Strucker's body crumpled on the ground.

"I'm not Loki," he repeats, walking toward Strucker.

James is just as confused as Clint is as they exchange a look before they follow.

"I don't remember this," Clint says.

"You weren't supposed to," Not-Loki returns.

The three of them stand over the body in awkward silence until Strucker's hand twitches.

"He's still alive," Clint observes.

"Indeed," Not-Loki agrees. "He was meant to fulfill a grand role."

"Which was what?" James asks when Not-Loki doesn't elaborate.

"Help Loki escape should he be captured."

"You mean build him a body and then what," Clint says, "teleport him back to Earth?"

Not-Loki laughs, short and clipped. "No. The plan never would've worked because my kindred twisted the suggestion. It's inconsequential now," he explains in a way that doesn't really explain anything, before growing quiet again.

Clint looks at James, face scrunched in thought, and James shrugs--oh, wait.

The images around them shift and drip, swirling around until they settle back into place. Only this time Strucker is again on his knees, the tip of the scepter is again resting against his forehead, blue light pulses--

"Loki inserted a suggestion into this man's head," Not-Loki says, "just below conscious thought, enough to keep his failsafe hidden. Wolfgang von Strucker was set to free him should he be captured. His memory of this encounter was erased, which would've allowed him to operate in an obliviousness that would've hidden Loki's intentions."

It makes sense and it explains Strucker's obsession with bringing back his god, but it seems like he was way off, what with the artificial body he was building.

"The mind stone changed the suggestion," James concludes.

"Yes," Not-Loki says.

With this confirmation comes another, one much more worrisome.

"What are you?" Clint whispers.

Not-Loki finally looks back at them. "An image."

"Of what?" James asks even though he already knows, and so does Clint, judging by the look on his face.

The memory around them shifts again, until they're standing around a table behind a curtain of clear plastic - a clean space inside the same room they started in. On it, Loki sets the scepter down next to the Tesseract, then walks away. Another object sits near, though, a wooden box with its lid open. Inside there's a depression in green velvet, the size of a dog tag. This must be the box that Strucker had. Not-Loki runs his fingers over the edge of the depression, causing a flickering image to reveal metal surrounding a green speck of light.

"The time stone," Clint whispers. "How'd it get here?"

"By the time these events happened," Not-Loki says while the memory around them is driven forward and they watch Loki hand Strucker the wooden box, "the gem was not in there anymore, only an illusion of its presence."

"Where was it then?" Clint asks, but his voice is strangled, and the dread in it worms into James as well.

"Hidden."

It's all Not-Loki says before the world shatters around them. The roof of the room crumbles into invisible dust that reveals the streets of New York above them. They were underground, but this information is inconsequential because the city follows, reality seemingly ripping itself apart only to mend back into the vastness of space.

Dark, wide, dry.

Awash in the smell of molten metal.

They're standing on a rock that's floating in a sea of other boulders. There's no visible atmosphere, yet the beings there are not suffocating.

One is Loki, on his knees in front of a faceless being, a six-fingered monster that holds a palm over Loki's forehead. His eyes are wide, horrified in this frozen image and Clint walks around them, slowly taking it in.

"That's the Other," Not-Loki says. "Abettor of Thanos. Loki fell into their hands and was tortured until his will bent enough to serve Thanos." Clint snorts at that, crossing his arms, but Not-Loki waves a hand before he can speak. "It doesn't excuse what he did. Loki is a Jotun after all, his mind too slippery to be caught in their web."

"Then why show us this?" Clint mutters.

"Because this is where everything began," Not-Loki returns, then points upward.

James follows his gesture, just as Clint does, to where another sits on a large stone throne. He's large, the size of a mountain, as he floats in the imponderability of vacuum, grin filled with malice.

"Thanos. He plans on doing irreversible things to the fabric of known reality and he doesn't even realize what dangers he throws upon the universes. He wishes to rule, yet his actions will bring extinction upon life. He's unaware of the powers he's trying to unleash," Not-Loki finishes in a whisper.

The image in front of them changes again, to one where Loki, yielding the scepter, promises to conquer Earth. The Other hands over the wooden box while Thanos relays unveiled threats, expecting the stones back, reunited with the Tesseract.

"Three gems together," Not-Loki says, halting the memory again.

"Time, space, mind," Clint breathes.

Not-Loki snaps his fingers. "Reality gone."

James swallows. "How do we stop him?"

"You already did," Not-Loki returns, eyes sparkling with mischief and James narrows his in suspicion.

~

"I don't get it." Clint lifts his hands in frustration before striding around James and Not-Loki.

They're in a SHIELD research facility, the one where they used to keep the Tesseract, the one that Loki breached. They've been watching the same memory rewind over and over, of a portal opening and Loki appearing in a swarm of a blue particles.

James steps in front of Clint, catching him between his arms, and is relieved when Clint doesn't push him away. Instead, he buries his face against James' neck, breath rugged on James' skin. James pins Not-Loki with his best glare, but it has no effect.

"And do you have to look like him?" Clint mutters, sounds muffled, but Not-Loki hears him anyway.

He shrugs, unapologetic.

"I am but an echo," he says. "The wisp of a thought. A... recording, if you will."

James huffs and Not-Loki smirks.

"An interactive recording," he adds, way too pleased with himself.

"We're not leaving here until we see what you want us to see, aren't we," James says.

"Exactly!"

"Then tell us," James grits.

"Look again."

James inhales as the memory restarts with the Tesseract supercharging until it releases a beam of blue light. This opens the portal, through which the levitating mass of boulders that comprises Thanos' homeworld is visible. The portal doesn't expand more than the size of three, maybe four grown persons, before it collapses onto its own center. Blue light flashes in all directions, like the smoke of an explosion, flickering with white and green--

"Go back," James says and Not-Loki grins.

The memory rewinds until the beam of light is at its strongest.

"Stop," James barks and the image freezes.

Clint pushes away, a small frown on his face, and James tips his chin at the beam.

"There's green in it," he steers Clint toward it, pointing to a thread so frail, it's almost invisible. From this close, though, its color is unmistakable. "The stones have a different radiation signature each."

"Quite correct," Not-Loki says. "Being pulled through the power of a kindred allowed tempus immortalis to spread itself thin, to absorb its properties, at least temporarily," he finishes, laughing at his own choice of words.

"Why?" Clint asks and he sounds just at the end of his patience as James is.

"To hide," Not-Loki says. "Evading Loki's grasp meant escaping Thanos and thus sheltering the universes from its destructive potential. If there was no time stone to be used, then the cumulative effects of the mind and space wouldn't be as devastating, which history shows merely lead to a portal opened for the Chitauri forces."

"A sound plan," James agrees, "but I've seen footage, the city became a battlefield."

"It ended in very little damage compared to what could've been," Not-Loki counters. "Because of its escape at this particular moment, timelines weren't affected, not for the majority of beings residing in this world. Only a handful, although I wouldn't say it was that bad for them either," he says, piercing eyes settled on Clint.

"Where did it hide?" Clint breathes, apprehension in his voice.

"Within you."

James' heart stops in his chest as fear crawls up his limbs. Jane almost died for having the Aether inside of her, while Schmidt disintegrated from touching the Tesseract, according to Natasha's account of Steve's story.

"Shouldn't I be dead already?" Clint asks, putting James' terror into words and his hand searches Clint's, grips at his fingers tightly when Clint catches it.

"Well," Not-Loki says, "it's not there physically, but spread out along your timeline."

"How--" Clint starts, only for Not-Loki to interrupt.

"What else do you see?"

The portal collapses. Loki appears in a congruence of blue particles, that then gather themselves right under the curved ceiling of the lab. James follows their movements, searching for the green in them, but the mass is changing too quickly.

"Can you make it go slower?"

"Of course," Not-Loki says.

James watches, pressed against Clint's side, clutching at Clint's hand, pushing away at the desperation. He won't lose Clint. Will take his place if needed. Anything--

His breath hitches in his throat at what he sees, up amongst the blue light. It's the sea, and the sun, and the apple.

His own face, delirious, dirty, sweaty, on that table.

It stank of blood and tears. Pain.

It's the sea floating against the ceiling, it's the yellow of the sun burning at the edges of this window into the past, and Clint's eyes shifting from blue to green, as he leans over--

Leans over--him. Bucky.

James always felt removed from that event, an outsider to his own hallucination, and now he knows why.

"You brought Clint to me," he rasps, throat too tight, eyes too blurry with the water in them.

"Yes," the avatar says.

It doesn't look like Loki anymore, its appearance turning slowly into Clint, the young one, the boy at the gas station. Up in the mass of light, more windows open, overlapping onto one another, of moments in time.

Memories.

Connections between Clint and James, threading with each other like through the lenses of telescopes.

"You intersected our lives," Clint concludes.

"No, that was all you," Not-Clint counters. "You spread me along points of contact between your lifelines in order to assimilate me entirely."

"And how did I--"

"It was my idea," James rasps, as he watches himself point a gun at the boy in the ditch.

The sight glimmers behind another memory, this one of James at the cabin, in their bedroom. It's nighttime and he's looking out the window. Against the faint moonlight, Clint's figure is visible as he sits on the collapsed tree trunk outside. The James of the recollection looks away then, bringing his attention to the apple shaped stone he got from the camp ruins.

"If you're really the master of time, then please..." the memory James whispers.

"Please what?" Clint asks from next to him and James inhales.

"Please don't tear us apart again," he says, voicing his past plea.

"And that's why we looped through the past," the young Not-Clint concludes.

James closes his eyes, because this is his fault. Clint being away for five years is his fault.

"You asked for that," Clint, his Nemo, says, but James can't face him. "Hey, look at me. James," he whispers, voice too gentle, and he shifts before the fingers of his free hand touch James' cheek.

It's not a request James can deny, not when Clint's given him so much, so he dares lift his eyelids and--Clint is smiling. Like this is the best thing James could've done and he frowns, confused. Clint's smile widens until it turns into a small laugh.

"You'll figure it out," Clint says, not really answering James' unasked question.

Something moves in the corner of James' eye and they both turn to see the avatar staring at them, a lot closer than before. It looks like Loki again and Clint lets out a startled "Ack!" before waving his hand through the apparition's face, causing it to flicker.

"So let's see if we got this right," Clint says. "First the time stone dematerialized because of the Tesseract, then it somehow settled into my timeline, which was then used to connect to James'."

Not-Loki's eyebrows twitch on his forehead with agreement.

"How'd it get in me?"

"When the scepter touched you, your mind was open and that was my chance," Not-Loki says.

"And it didn't kill me because it's not physically in me," Clint says and Not-Loki nods. "Then how come I held it in my hand?"

Instead of an answer Not-Loki smirks and Clint groans.

"I imagined it."

"You needed a manifestation to grasp what I am," Not-Loki confirms.

"But why involve me?" James asks.

"The points of a single person's life are not fixed," the avatar explains. "Any event can affect the course of one's path and to fix it in time is only possible relative to another's path. Intertwine properly and the events that might cause ruptures are balanced out." Not-Loki shrugs. "The fortunate element here is that the proximity of the three gems allowed for a secondary portal to open, right to when you," he tells James, "absorbed a heavy dose of the Tesseract's energy."

"So you hijacked our lives," Clint mutters.

"My apologies," the avatar says. "I linked them without your permission."

Clint is silent and James holds his breath because if they were brought together by external forces, they might be torn apart again, their past erased and their future devoid of each other. He doesn't want this. Absolutely not.

"Good," Clint says, bringing James' hand up to cup with both of his.

They both want that same thing, then. Good, indeed.

"Can it be undone?" James asks.

"Yes."

This is not what James wanted to hear and given by Clint's inhale, it's not what he was expecting either.

The avatar watches them closely, green eyes shimmering with too much color, before tilting his head. "You can ensure that it doesn't."

"How?"

"Accept yourself," Not-Loki tells James. "Right now Nemo's persona," he says, gesturing at Clint, "is connected to three sides of you. Make sure these three live forever and Clint's timeline will never be separated from yours."

"And that's it," James frowns, incredulous. "That's all it takes."

"In a manner of speaking," the avatar says.

"Why don't you explain properly what you mean," James grits.

"My responses are limited, I am just a recording."

Next to him, Clint brings James' hand to his own forehead, silent laughter shaking his frame. He doesn't seem very amused, though. James inhales, exhales, inhales again, steadying himself. Clint kisses his knuckles and that centers him more than anything. Clint's an anchor, he realizes.

Clint is permanence.

Nemo.

Nemo is not one, but all that Clint is. Nemo is James himself, but not entirely, because parts of James are still untethered, unlike the other facets of Clint.

The avatar's shape stretches until it splits in two persons, and James finds himself staring at Bucky Barnes and the Winter Soldier.

"I get it," he rasps, unable to look at them much longer. So much loss. So much pain. "Take them away."

"As you wish," Loki's voice drifts back through and James is met with the face of the Asgardian again instead of his ghosts'.

"You know what I don't get?" Clint comments.

"What?" Not-Loki frowns.

"You are obviously able to look like someone else, so why don't you?"

It earns him a laugh and James' desire to punch the smug bastard returns.

"Oh," Clint growls, "just wait until I pull you out, asshole."

The laughter stops just as suddenly as it began, and Not-Loki raises an eyebrow.

"Actually, you can't. Not yet, anyway."

Clint narrows his eyes.

"If you force me out now, you'll unravel everything. So first," the avatar turns to James, "you need to make sure all of yourself keeps living, one way or another, within you. Then," he tells Clint, "in a couple of years by my estimate, there will be a magician that will know how to free me without altering the course of events."

"A magician," Clint repeats, unamused.

"Of sorts."

"And where will we find this magician?"

"You'll know when you see him. Maybe you'll even be the one to set him on his path. Maybe not."

Clint's shoulders slump and he looks at the ceiling. James shares in the sentiment.

"I'm getting a headache," Clint says.

"Then perhaps it's time you return to awareness," Not-Loki offers and James' skin itches to be out of this hallucination. "But before you go, a word of advice."

Clint raises his eyebrows expectantly and James presses his lips together. For some reason, the avatar's tone fills him with apprehension.

"I'd remove those triggers," he says, pointing at James' head, "before they do more damage."

Ah, there it was. The threat.

"How?" Clint asks.

"Trust my kindred."

Vision's hand withdraws and if it weren't for Clint behind him, James would stumble back. Instead, Clint's the one who almost falls, and James manages to catch him, spinning them around until they're both stable on their feet.

"Back off," Steve says, moving to stand between James and Vision.

Wait.

James leans closer to Clint. "Do you feel like his name is Vision, too?" he whispers, glancing at the purple android.

Clint's eyebrows lift on his forehead while his eyes widen, and he nods slowly. Steve talks, but James is not paying attention, not right now, because in Clint's eyes is a reflection of the knowledge they've gotten - an explanation and an apology. Clint squeezes his arm with another nod before stepping away.

"--until then keep your distance," Steve is saying when Clint steps up next to him.

"Your name is Vision," Clint tells the purple being, who tilts his head, considering.

Natasha walks closer as well, a small frown on her face, until she's standing next to James. On another person it would just reveal confusion, but James can see the worry underneath. He takes her hand, reassuring.

"We're naming it now?" Tony quips and Clint shrugs.

"Him," James says. The mechanisms in Vision's eyes shift as he sets them on James. "Or her," James corrects.

"Or them," Sam adds, and everyone turns to look at him. "What," he says, raising his hands defensively. "It's pronouns--"

"Pronouns belong to persons," Vision interrupts. He blinks, nods. "Thank you," he says. "Him is good for now."

Yes, this feels better than treating Vision like an object. The sentience makes all the difference, and it doesn't matter if it came from the mind stone or from somewhere else.

"I see you made new friends," comes from above and they all look up to see Nick Fury standing on the suspended catwalk, both hands on the railing.

James last saw him through the scope of his rifle and he shudders. Fury's good eye glances at everyone there before settling on James. A moment passes, too small to be noticed by anyone else, but massive in James' perception, before Fury's mouth tilts with smugness. Yeah, he survived, and not many do when faced with the Winter Soldier, so James smirks back at him. Forgiveness has never come with admiration and it feels good.

"Well you know us," Tony says, "we're very pleasant people."

"Speak for yourself," Steve counters and Tony gives him an incredulous look, which makes Steve shrug. "I like being unpleasant."

Tony rolls his eyes, but he doesn't get the chance to say more because Pepper places herself bodily between them just as Natasha admonishes them with a clipped "boys."

Clint laughs and that earns him a glare from Steve.

"How about we continue this conversation somewhere more comfortable?" Fury adds with gesture upwards. "Don't wanna think I dug up an entire helicarrier for nothing."

"If it has showers it's not for nothing," Pepper says.

"And coffee," adds Tony.

"Some food would be good," comes from Steve.

"Pizza!"

"Water, too?" Sam asks.

"What am I," Fury raises both hands, "running a hotel here?"

But they all follow, through grimy corridors and in between agents gathering up the survivors of their mission. Most of them are severely wounded, probably won't make it to next morning, but James can't find it in himself to care.

Clint is safe and they have much more information than they did yesterday. Perhaps even a solution to the triggers, and James watches the back of Vision's head carefully, considering the avatar's words.

Perhaps it's time for things to change.

For some of the pain to end.

That would, indeed, be worth the risk.

~


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone o/  
> Here we are, second to last chapter in this story :)  
> Again many thanks to Tanouska and Kat. The closer we are to the ending, the whinier I get, hah, and especially T has felt that (send all the cookies that way). Because you know, there's no pressure, none at all, ahah *says author then flees from expectations* Fear not, though, chapter 24 is one third drafted already, should be ready by the end of the week. And since the ol' birthday is soon-ish, I'm declaring the entire first week of December as my birthday week. Because why the hell not :) This entire story has been quite a ride and I'm getting emotional here at the end. *sniffles* I'll go make James cry a little. What? You want Clint to bawl as well? Sure, no problem :D  
> Have a wonderful weekend everyone!

2014

The helicarrier is a remarkable feat of technology. James is impressed, taking note of equipment and structure as they make their way through its winding corridors. Not long after they've entered via the lower decks, Hill meets them in a brightly lit hallway that splits off into three directions.

"Medical's this way," she says and Rhodes is already moving toward her with Cho.

It's when Pepper tries to steer Tony after them that most of the group stops, because Tony resists, as much as he can without speaking. His eyes are set on the backs of the twins where they're walking ahead after Fury and Thor. Steve and Sam were right behind the twins, but now Steve's looking back at them. Tony's eyes shift from Wanda to Steve, then Clint, then Natasha. Reassuring nods come from all of them, so when Tony's gaze falls on James, he nods on instinct. But when Tony's shoulders slump and he lets Pepper drag him away, James realizes that yes, he meant it. He'll also make sure the threat is eliminated.

Steve speeds up so he's next to Vision, Natasha and Sam right behind him. Clint falls back with James, two steps, then three.

"Do you need medical?" Clint whispers.

James almost says no, but he takes his time to consider this, especially the jolt from earlier, the one that threw him back from that table. His body's fine now, though, already healed.

"You took a pretty hard hit," Clint continues. "Checked your pulse, but you know--" he waves helplessly in front of him. He had to deal with the impending arrival of Loki, or so they thought at the time.

"I know," James tells him, just as quietly, and Clint matches his smile. "I don't need medical."

Clint exhales a long breath and James risks a quick squeeze of his wrist. It's the right thing to do, because Clint relaxes a bit more.

"Do you need medical?" James returns his question, pointing at the blood still spattered on Clint.

"Not mine," Clint answers.

He wants to be alone with Clint, but there are things to be handled still. So, for now, James pushes away at everything threatening to send him into a spiral of forgotten memories, through things that the illusion they've just shared has nudged closer to the surface.

Fury leads them inside a room that's neither small, nor large, but enough to fit them all, and barren enough to host a fight. There's a long thin table occupying the far half of the space, chairs in disarray around it. The room has no windows, just light fixtures above and a large monitor mounted on the wall next to the table.

They all shuffle inside and James, much like Sam, takes his own cue when the Avengers don't even need to speak to each other to place themselves in such a way that Fury, Vision, Wanda, and Pietro are left in the middle.

"I am--"

"Nicholas Fury," Vision interrupts. "Nick. Former director of SHIELD."

Fury widens his stance, hands behind his back. "Is that so?"

"I think my name is Vision," the android says. "Well, it is for now." He sounds more like JARVIS than Loki, but not entirely like either. "These are Wanda and Pietro--"

"Maximoff," Fury takes his turn. "You two have done quite a great deal of damage for Strucker."

"We didn't know what he was doing," Pietro says.

"That's not an excuse," Fury says, his eye on Wanda.

The girl has barely looked up from her own toes every since peeking into Vision's mind. She must have seen something horrible there.

"It is when young and foolish," Vision counters.

"You mean to tell me she couldn't have seen Strucker's plans all this time," Fury comments.

Wanda opens her mouth, but closes it immediately, without looking up. Fury frowns.

"Strucker himself didn't know what he was doing," Vision says.

"And we're supposed to forgive and forget?" Fury asks.

Around them, everyone is keeping quiet, even Steve, each bracing themselves, so James steadies his breathing as well.

Vision blinks once. "Merely allow an effort toward redemption."

Silence stretches and tension rises.

"If I may offers a suggestion," Vision continues after a few moments, getting an affirmative gesture from Fury. "I believe they should stay with you."

Wanda's head snaps up at that, while Fury tilts his head.

"What do you mean?" Steve asks, taking a step forward.

"I mean teach, train, and know them beyond what Strucker intended them to be," Vision says. "Monsters." An unidentifiable sound leaves Pietro and Vision turns toward them. "Look into my mind," he tells Wanda.

Steve and Fury exchange a few silent gestures that are more filled with confusion and misery than anything else. Wanda takes a couple of breaths before she finally touches Vision's temple, and she doesn't recoil this time. Instead, she smiles.

"Ok," she says. "We go with him."

"We do?" Pietro asks.

"You what?" comes from Fury.

"May I?" Vision steps toward Fury, a hand lifted, but Fury frowns.

"No, you may not," he says, accenting each word in part.

"Director Fury," Thor steps up then, "please allow him to show you."

"Is that safe?" Natasha asks.

"Yes," Thor returns without missing a beat.

Fury mutters something to himself, but then he nods with an eye roll. Whatever Vision's showing him doesn't last long, but then again James felt like they had been in the illusion for days when a mere fraction of a second had passed in the real world. So Fury might be witnessing more than the rest of them are seeing.

Eyebrows raised, Fury steps back and turns toward the twins. "Really? That's why you--" He stops himself, draws air, exhales. "There are going to be rules."

Wanda grins, despite Pietro's confusion and everyone else's as well, except for Thor and Vision.

"So?" Steve asks.

"Of all the reasons to put themselves into the hands of a maniac," Fury says, "this must be the most stupid ass one."

"Are you going to share with the rest of the class?" comes from Sam.

"Not today," Fury returns, and Wanda's shoulders slump while Pietro wraps his arms around her.

"For what it's worth, sir," Clint tells Fury, "I think you're the most suitable to handle enhanced humans."

"Do you now," Fury grumbles, eye squinting at Clint.

Vision speaks then, facing the twins. "You'll behave," he says, but it's not an order. Not a question, either, more of a matter of fact.

"We will," Wanda promises. "We want to learn."

"This doesn't mean forgiveness," Clint adds.

Wanda shakes her head. "We understand."

Fury rubs at his forehead, then sidles toward one of the chairs and sits heavily in it. It's then that Pietro's stomach growls angrily, breaking the silence with awkwardness.

"You need food," Fury observes, but makes no move to stand.

"How about I take them for showers and meals?" Natasha says, taking a step closer as well.

Fury exchanges a look with her, and James can't see her face, but he thinks he knows her enough by now to figure she's offering only because she wants to weigh them herself. The fact that Clint's relaxed next to him confirms it, but Steve's almost vibrating where he stands.

"I'll join you," Sam says, and it shouldn't be this funny, the way Steve oscillates between worry for Natasha and worry for Sam.

The four are soon gone and the rest of them join Fury around the table.

"Wanna tell me what happened here?" Fury asks.

Steve starts with a recount of the recent events and Clint offers his side on what happened during their brief captivity. It only confirms what they already suspected, that Clint protected Tony and his reactor as best he could. Thor's arrival is just as confusing now as it was when it happened, and Thor leans with his elbows against the table.

"When me and Dr. Banner met with Jane," Thor says, "I received word from Heimdall that the records mentioning the infinity stones in the archives had been destroyed, seemingly on purpose. Probably by my brother. But with his message Heimdall also sent word about a well of knowledge hidden on Midgard, so I flew there."

"That's where you got a vision of the world ending?" Steve asks.

"Of the universe being destroyed," Thor corrects.

That's when Vision pitches in with explanations about the unimaginable powers of the stones, things he himself knows very little about.

It was fortunate Thor used Mjolnir's energy to interrupt whatever was about to be created.

"So I did bring this big ass ship," Fury says, gesturing around the room, "for nothing."

"I wouldn't say that," Coulson's voice permeates the room, while his face appears on the wall monitor. "We'll put it to good use. SHIELD thanks you."

"The hell you will," Fury returns, "this is my ship."

"Don't be stinky to your director, Nick."

"I'll show you stinky," Fury grumbles while Coulson's pleasant smile remains unperturbed. "And who said you're the boss of me?"

"You did," Coulson says easily, shoulder shrugging.

Clint snorts loudly next to James, then bends over, hand over his mouth and nose, unable to keep laughter in, and James looks around the table. Steve has that incredulous face he does when he can't tell if someone is serious or not, Thor's fake frown is betrayed by the twitch of his lips, while Vision is studying the bickering men with interest.

"Are you perhaps married," Vision says, and that sends Clint into a howling bout.

Thor can't abstain anymore either, while Steve tips his chin at them, giving James a 'can you believe this' look. James shrugs and pats Clint's back when Clint coughs.

Coulson sobers up then. "Was anyone hurt?"

"Not fatally," Fury says. "Except for the bad guys."

"Is Strucker dead?"

"Didn't check," Steve mutters.

"No," Vision supplies. "He has a faint heartbeat still."

Fury rubs a hand over his face. "Which reminds me, what are you gonna do with all his men?"

"Agent Hill knows where to bring them," Coulson says. "I'll take over from there, contact the authorities. Will keep all your involvement to a minimum."

"Thanks, Phil," Clint tells him.

Soon after, Coulson signs off and Steve turns to Fury.

"Can you drop us off to our quinjet? We should head back to New York."

"I'll send someone to fly it in," Fury returns. "What about him?" he asks, glancing at Vision.

"I would like to see New York, too," Vision says.

"Would you now," Fury comments.

But he doesn't oppose this further. Nobody could actually stop Vision from doing whatever he wants, and they all know this. However, Vision seems to be on the side of reason, at least for now. James is still wary, even if Thor's trusting him and he helped keep the twins in check. Judging by the look on Clint's face, he is too.

~

By the time James steps out of the shower, Clint's already in sweatpants, going through the steps of calibrating his implants. James has it easier in that regard, all it takes is a fist and a twist, and he waits patiently as he towels his hair dry. There are more clothes on the armchairs in the corner, so he snatches some of those. They fit, but they're not new.

"Steve brought those earlier," Clint says and James nods. He didn't pack before rushing to New York with Sam and before the mission he wore some that Clint had left over.

It's the same bedroom he used with Natasha, the same that Clint uses when he's at the tower, and James finds his discarded hairband on the nightstand. Nifty inventions, he thinks as he carefully ties back his locks. A few times, he got hairs between the plates and that was not fun. Not at all.

"You've been quiet," Clint says, the words just as soft in the silence of the room.

Actually, the entire floor around them is tranquil. James isn't sure where everyone else is right now. Tony might be in medical with Pepper and Rhodes again, Thor might already be gone to see Jane. Steve gave him a worried look when Clint declared they needed rest and showers, dragging James away. Right now, though, he's grateful for the reprieve, for having Clint to himself.

"I usually am," he says as he makes his way to Clint.

"Not that quiet, not anymore."

"I've changed?"

Clint cups his cheek and James leans into it, then presses his lips against Clint's palm while Clint whispers, "A little bit."

His other cheek is touched by Clint's free hand then, and he slides them both to his neck, thumbs trailing James' jaw. He's done this before, outside the cabin, with the same softness in his eyes. James inhales, the air heating up his lungs until something swirls in his chest, too pleasant, too full, and he--he--

He smiles, when Clint smiles, and tightness wraps around his ribs in a hold that says he's safe. He is loved.

Oh.

So that's what it was, that night outside the cabin. James licks his lips and when Clint pulls, he goes easily to meet the kiss. The touch stretches slowly into a glide, then a nip, and again, until they're closer, until they're wrapped around each other, with Clint's forehead against James' neck and James' nose in Clint's still damp hair.

"So I hear you took charge of things," Clint says, amusement in his voice, and James leans back to look at him.

"Yeah?"

Clint hums, smirk on his lips. "JARVIS showed me footage of the meeting."

James groans. "I didn't mean to, but you were--"

There are lips on his, cutting him off, and if it weren't for the swirling coming back to warm his limbs, James would grumble. Instead, he lets himself be lulled by the sensation.

"I'm really proud of you," Clint says when he lets go.

His inhale is suddenly not enough and James draws air again. This is--Clint smiles at him like he knows what it means. It's everything he wasn't allowed to do in decades, trained out of him. Now it's confirmed, though, that yes. He is allowed. More than that, he can speak for himself. Can decide. So, with the grin taking over his face, he decides to pick Clint up and squeeze him until Clint gives a yelp.

His laughter is beautiful, and James dares steal a taste of it after he sets Clint back down.

Their mirth is short lived, though, because not half a minute later, Vision's purple body glides through the wall like it's not even there, and James recoils.

"Really," Clint tells Vision. "You can't just walk in on people like that."

"Why?"

Clint pauses, but then he crosses his arms. "Look up the meaning of privacy in a dictionary and you'll see why."

Vision tilts his head, his mechanical irises spinning around for a moment before he speaks again. "I apologize."

With a huff, Clint turns to grab a t-shirt, and Vision makes an aborted move toward him, eyes shifting from Clint's back to James.

"Why are you here?" James says instead of providing an explanation and thankfully Vision takes that cue to not ask.

No answer comes while Clint steps back next to James, taking his right hand. He threads their fingers together and James finds he's clutching back a little too tightly when Clint's arm twitches, but he can't make himself let go.

"What if it gets worse?" he breathes.

"I'll bring you back. Steve'll bring you back," Clint says.

"What if you can't?"

"I will."

The words are definitive, their tone hard, and when James looks at Clint, his eyes are wet.

"It will work," Vision says.

"How do you know?"

"This thing," Vision points to the gem on his forehead, "I don't know what it is, or how it works, but I know one thing. It wants to help you."

"You are not the stone itself," Clint rasps.

"Merely a passenger, just like you," Vision tells him.

With a press of his lips, Clint nods once and turns to James. "Your decision. Whatever the outcome, we'll be here."

And this is actually the thing. James will not be alone in the hands of enemies, he will be with Clint and Natasha in the arms of friends.

"Do it," he says, and now it's his turn to feel Clint's grip tightening.

Vision drifts closer, then, fingers touching James' forehead faster than James can inhale.

_ "Stop struggling, James. You know it's useless. Let's try again. Listen to my voice." _

That voice. That fucking voice.

_ "I'm very disappointed, James." _

Ivchenko and his words.

_ "Tell me, James, do you enjoy making me hurt you?" _

Cutting through everything, aching, punishing.

_ "Tell me, who are you?" _

He is not who Ivchenko wants him to be. He is going to resist.

_ "Stop resisting, James, listen to my voice." _

Can't Ivchenko see? Bucky will never give in.

_ "Tell me, James--" _

"My name is Bucky!" he screams.

"Of course it is," comes back softly, gently, with calloused fingers on his cheeks, wiping away the wetness.

His throat is raw, but he forces words out. "He kept calling me James."

Clint nods. "I know. Vision showed me."

James looks up then, but the android is no longer there.

"He left," Clint says.

They're kneeling on the carpet, but it mustn't have been for long because his body doesn't protest the position. James leans forward and Clint catches him.

"He broke me," he rasps. "Actually, no. Broke Bucky."

His voice trembles with the name. What is he really...

"You're Nemo," Clint whispers in his ear, and James didn't realize he said it out loud.

But that--Nemo is something untainted by Ivchenko or pain or James or Bucky.

"I am Nemo," he repeats, closing his eyes. "I am Nemo."

~

James leans against the headboard, his flesh fingers threading through Clint's hair as he sleeps next to him.

They've spent almost three hours clutching at each other on the floor, but eventually exhaustion caught up with Clint and James laid him down. He exhales, letting his eyes lose focus over the city lights outside. It's only a little after midnight. Plenty of time before they have to get out and face the world.

The earlier foray into the painful places his torturer had instilled has left James drained, but Clint's presence kept him rooted in the present.

So he's still James, even though he rejected the name once, even though it was used against him. But he's not the same James that Ivchenko tried to make him be, not that Bucky who had just died, isolated from everything and everyone.

No.

The James he is now is of his own making, something he chose for himself.

His first decision.

The name might be the same, but the person underneath is wholly different. And the bitterness of having his own name used against him fades with every minute, with every time James reminds himself.

He is Nemo. Just like Clint is Nemo. They can be more than one facet of themselves.

The door opens and closes softly as Natasha makes her way quietly inside. She drops her bathrobe and dresses quickly from Clint's pile of clothes on the armchair. James grimaces at how he kept Clint's attention for himself, when Nat was just as worried. So when she pads closer, James shifts to make room between him and Clint. Her smile is visible, even in the dimness of the room.

She's soon curled up against Clint, head resting on James' thigh, and he alternates between caressing Clint's hair and hers.

"Vision told us he removed your triggers," she whispers. "I convinced Steve to let you rest tonight."

"Thank you," he breathes. Natasha looks up at him and he nods. Yeah, he won't postpone, not anymore. "I'll talk to him tomorrow."

This satisfies her, because she lies back down, closing her eyes.

"Good night, Nemo."

"Good night."

~

"Get your own coffee," Natasha says, pushing Clint's flopping hand away from her face.

"Come on, Nat," Clint pleads, words more a mumble than anything, "I was kidnapped."

It's been like this for the past ten minutes and James almost offers to go himself, but Natasha rolls out of bed with a barely contained smile, even though she sounds very much put upon.

"Fine, you big baby," she says, then turns to where James sits in an armchair. "Coffee?"

"Yeah, thanks."

He hasn't managed much sleep during the night, barely a couple of hours around dawn. His mind's been reeling with the events of the past few days, with the anticipation of talking to Steve, with the tightness in his chest when thinking of Clint. It's peculiar, this feeling, and James can't place its origin. There's nothing to do about it right now, but there is something he can do sooner rather than later, so he calls out to Natasha as she opens the door.

"Can you bring Steve, too?"

Clint turns his head to look at James, but says nothing. He also doesn't seem to have any intention to leave James alone for this, and James breathes easier.

~

By the time Steve enters the room, Clint's managed to prop himself against the headboard and he extends a hand in a 'give here' gesture at the coffee Steve's carrying. It takes a moment for Steve to react, confusion on his face, before he turns to James to hand over the other mug.

"Thanks," James says and waves Steve to sit on the other armchair, which James has cleared of its pile of discarded clothes.

He takes the seat, but turns to glance at Clint a couple of times. On the bed, Clint's inhaling the steam, eyes half closed.

"Do you have to be here?" Steve asks him.

"He does," James says.

Clint blinks. Slowly. Then sips his drink. James shakes his head with a small huff. Clearly Clint's more awake than that though, because he wiggles his left arm out from beneath the comforter without spilling a drop and extends it toward Steve, tattoo visible.

A beat, two, three, and Steve's throat clicks as he swallows.

"I knew the handwriting looked familiar before," he breathes.

Clint closes his eyes and goes back to his coffee, while Steve turns to face James.

"It's funny," Steve says, but his face shows anything but amusement, "Clint told me the tat was for an old friend."

"Well, I'm old," James offers with half a shrug, before twisting his right wrist to show him. "We gave each other these in '97."

Steve leans with his elbows on his knees, face open, ready to listen, and it's easy.

~

It's simple to recount events and facts and encounters, because Steve waits for all his words, doesn't interrupt, doesn't ask for details. He tells Steve everything, about the time stone and the connection he and Clint have, and when he's not sure if to reveal a particular thing, he looks at Clint. Always receives a nod, yes, go on.

At the same time, it's more difficult than James thought to tell Steve about what he is now.

What Nemo means.

"We do horrible things to vile men so that others can fight in the light. Others like you," James finishes.

Steve catches James' wrist, cups his other hand over the tattoo, and James closes his eyes. Steve doesn't want to see it.

That's fine, that's--

"Do you know what Fury called me when he first tried to recruit me into SHIELD?" Steve asks, but James doesn't dare look at him. "He said," Steve continues, "that I was the first avenger. I was the fella to give him the idea that striking mercilessly is what we need to survive. Figure that."

Steve's thumb runs over the tattoo and James shivers.

"Buck, that's the very definition of what you are. You think I'm clean of innocent blood? Think again. Remember what we used to do in the war." He pauses for a second, then squeezes James' hand tighter. "Is this why you ran? Because you think I'll judge you?"

His voice, shaky at first, is now steady, but James presses his lips. It's not that easy, it can't be.

"No," Steve continues. "If anyone should ask for forgiveness here, it's me, for letting you fall. I should've jumped after you. I was a coward."

James shakes his head.

"Yeah, I was. Remember when you used to read about Captain Nemo to me? Remember when we promised to be like him, to help? Remember, Bucky?"

James swallows the lump in his throat and lifts his eyelids. "I remember him. Your Bucky," he rasps.

The smile that blooms on Steve's lips shouldn't be there. "You are my Bucky," he says. "Like you are Clint's Nemo, ok? What you did, all those things, that wasn't you. But--" And Steve slides closer to the edge of the seat, keeps James' hand in one of his, then rests the other on James' shoulder. "The fact that you broke through it, this is you. Whatever you had to do, whatever they turned you into, that guy--" Steve swallows, inhales. "I'll forever be grateful to that guy, because he kept you alive."

James' eyes move to Clint, but Steve leans into his line of sight. 

"Even before Clint, you survived on your own for half a century. Don't you get it? My Bucky was a survivor. He lived through Zola's camp, lived through the war. He lived through decades of pain while I was sleeping obliviously in ice."

Bucky's flesh hand is shaking. He's pretty sure it's shaking.

But the Soldier's metal fingers aren't, so he wraps them around the back of Steve's neck, just like he used to.

"My name is Bucky Barnes," he breathes. "I am the Winter Soldier."

"You are my friend," Steve says.

"I am your friend."

Motion catches at the corner of his eye as Clint sits on the armrest of James' chair, his hand warm on Bucky's back. 

He is Nemo, too.

~


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On Dec. 7th 2015 I was posting [The Nameless One](http://intermittently-ava.tumblr.com/post/134681594247/the-nameless-one) and in January I started writing it. Now, a year later, the story is complete, at a little over 100k words. This has been a long journey, filled with ups and downs, twists and events, intertwining plotlines and cliffhangers.
> 
> I haven’t been alone in this, and my gratitude goes to all those who have helped this story along, with providing a listening ear, support, cheerleading, editing and beta’ing, motivation and encouragement. I’m listing them in the order they appeared along with the story: [the Cat](http://followthemuze.tumblr.com), [Molly](http://mollynoble.tumblr.com), [Hraf](http://hrafnsvaengr.tumblr.com), [the Catnip](http://catnipandjaegerpilots.tumblr.com), [the Hugglesquisher](http://gingerenvyfics.tumblr.com), [Tanya](http://midgardian-lokidottir.tumblr.com), [Kat](http://katsdisturbed.tumblr.com), [Tanouska](http://tanouska.tumblr.com), [Ames](http://huskiesfan-olicity-wintershock.tumblr.com).
> 
> They are not the only ones. Many many times, the comments on the story pushed me forward, provided valuable feedback and motivation. You all know who you are, you’ve been here every chapter, been here making me feel like my days aren’t wasted. So thank you for that, to all of you.
> 
> And to everyone: thank you for reading!
> 
> [Nameless](http://intermittently-ava.tumblr.com/post/153915192117/nameless-completemarvel) || [Dragonland](http://intermittently-ava.tumblr.com)

2014

There is something tremendously satisfying about seeing smiles and relaxed postures. Breakfast is actually taken at noon, which sets off a back and forth between Steve and Tony about whether or not this is actually lunch or breakfast. It only settles when Bruce declares it brunch, but that makes Sam groan about rich people, and it devolves into stories about the '40s, Russia, traveling circuses, even life on Vanaheim. Which is not what James had expected, as a child, space to be like. It's better, and it leaves him grinning.

He spends most of the day trailing Clint or Natasha around the tower and learns quite a few things. For instance, Sam is sweet on Nat, she is on him, and Clint watches it unfold with a little too much glee, in Natasha's words.

But as much as James enjoys getting to know his new friends - because yes, they are, both Pepper and Tony insisted - he is also on edge. When Vision removed the triggers, it didn't feel like more than a dive into painful memories. He thinks the only way to be sure is to test the words on him and Clint agrees. So the two of them will drive up to the cabin, while Nat and Steve and Sam will wait in the quinjet nearby in case they're needed for containment.

~

Naturally, Steve's not pleased to stand by on the sidelines, but when Clint promises he can visit later he's appeased. James would happily have him there through this, but there are things he needs space for, like giving himself time to settle everything in his head. Let himself go through the memories of himself on Zola's table with Clint bending over him. Let his mind rearrange around this newfound information.

It's what he's focused on while Clint drives, cars and trees passing by around them as James leans back in the passenger seat, a knee hugged to his chest.

Clint was in Austria in '43, but he never said he met Bucky Barnes there, and now James realizes that this is what Clint's been holding back. He spares a glance at Clint's profile. Why would he keep this a secret? From the others, yeah, it's understandable. Clint didn't want to relay something that ultimately belongs to James: the suffering he experienced in that lab.

But why not tell James?

Unless there was more to it.

So he closes his eyes, rewinds the images of the illusion, when the avatar of the time stone overlaid their connections onto each other...

They flood through him.

Some in more clarity, others in muted tones. A few moments he remembers more vividly now, like when he patched Clint's arrow wound. Others are sifted through emotion. Fear, comfort, anticipation. A smile. There's no music in the bar, just the voices of soldiers filling the space, and the man smiles, long hair covering his face. But when he's without glasses, when he lies there next to Bucky, he looks familiar, like a long lost piece of himself.

His skin is raised in goosebumps from the chilly air and Bucky trails his fingers over a faint scar below his ribs. Huh, it's funny, Clint has the exact same one--

The breath stills in James' chest.

He remembers.

Every kiss, every touch, every smile. The way they slotted together, awkward and fumbling and laughing.

It's dizzying, to know that Bucky--

How could he--

There's a lump in James' throat and he struggles to swallow against it.

Clint hums as he drives, the same song he hummed when he let Bucky hold him, when they danced, and James' jaw locks. This is betrayal and he can't believe Bucky stole that from him. Can't believe Bucky put that blissful look on Clint's face when James hasn't even--it hasn't even crossed his mind. But now that he remembers Clint's hands on him, the way it felt to be cherished--

Wait.

Wait, wait.

James blinks fast against the burn behind his eyelids.

He is Bucky.

He is. He was the one there with Clint, not another. It's James who remembers their night together, the last bit of happiness Bucky felt before his life ended. No, James can't fault him for that. Instead, gratitude fills him.

For having felt that before the pain. For having given Clint an untainted piece of himself. And somehow, for this reason, it feels like Bucky lives in Clint as much as he lives in James.

The car stops suddenly and Clint turns to him.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Clint asks.

"Wh--" James tries, but his throat is dry.

"You're shaking."

Oh. Well. It's bound to happen, especially since he realizes that Clint's given him everything. His words, back then, set him on his path, but it didn't stop there. Clint's given him a name, a life, friends.

Love.

Acceptance.

Tenderness.

His metal fingers are free of trembles when he unlatches their seat belts and he pulls at Clint until he can wrap his arms around him, squeezes as tightly as he dares without cracking ribs.

"Whoa, hey--"

"You're mine," James says, wetness clouding his vision, but he blinks it away before leaning back to cup Clint's face. He's surprised and worried, and James kisses his mouth. "You're my Nemo."

Clint frowns in confusion and James grins.

"That night, you told me about what you did as a soldier. 's why I tried it."

A few seconds pass while Clint takes this in, but James is patient. And yes, there it is, comprehension.

"I made Bucky Barnes a sniper," Clint rasps.

"Like I made Clint Barton one," James adds.

It's Clint that grips at his shoulders this time, and James goes easily, burrows in his embrace.

"For the record, I don't approve of owning people," Clint says, voice wet, and James can't contain the pressure behind his eyes, not anymore.

"Such a jerk," he gasps, "you know what I meant."

"I do." Clint kisses his temple and James sniffs. "Hey, don't get snot on me," he says, entirely too serious.

James laughs between sobs, lets Clint caress him, and promises himself to give back all he has as well.

~

Clint snaps the red book closed and then spends long seconds studying James' face from the other side of the glass.

"That's the last of it," he says. "Anything?"

James waits, inhaling and exhaling in measured rhythm, but there is nothing that's pulling him away from reality. He shakes his head and watches Clint release a held breath. He moves to open the cell door, but James stops him.

"Let's wait longer."

It takes a moment before Clint nods, and James understands his reluctance to keep him locked in the basement. But he needs to be sure. Clint gives him a reassuring smile then, before grabbing his tablet and opening a line to the quinjet. He relays the good news, so far, then lets them know they're going to give it a few more hours. Nat ends the conversation after a promise from Clint to call if they need anything.

They're alone.

The day's been draining and James feels exhaustion creep into his bones, so he drags the mattress close to the glass. On the other side, Clint sits on the sofa cushions Sam's left there. James wants to touch him, but he'll have to settle for leaning with a shoulder against Clint's, the transparent wall between them.

Clint places his hand on the glass, watches his splayed fingers for a while, and James traces them with his own from his side.

"You remember that entire night in Austria," Clint whispers. James can't tell if it's a question or not, but he answers it anyway.

"Yes. I watched you fall asleep thinking you were loving someone else, but..."

Clint smiles, without taking his eyes off their hands pressing on the glass. He looks lost in the moment and James lets himself drift back there as well, closes his eyes and rests his head against the wall.

"Clint?"

A hum comes back.

"Can I--" No, that's not right. "I want--" Yes, better. "I want to be Bucky tonight. And tomorrow." See how it feels.

"Anything you want," Clint says.

He wants to love Clint back.

"Go to sleep, Bucky."

Love Nemo.

~

He sets the dirty plates in the sink before refilling both their mugs and taking his seat back at the table. Clint's been looking at him funny all morning.

It hasn't started all that smooth, reconciling these sides of himself. He still feels separated, so he's going to try giving each of himself a day or two. After forgetting Bucky and rejecting the Soldier, it's going to be a while to get used to being them again.

So he breathes out slowly, pushing away the Nemo in him. Ma did say he's gonna find trouble if he keeps with the Rogers boy, but did Bucky listen. And look where he is now. With this beautiful man in front of him that fills his chest in a way nothing else has. Ever.

Ma'd be proud. She'd love Clint.

Bucky reaches out and takes his hand, places a kiss on his knuckles. Clint's smile warms him from his toes to the tips of his ears. That sensation isn't going away, it seems, no matter who he is.

~

In the afternoon, he finally gives in and searches for an explanation online, but that only tells him he might have a pulmonary infection or is being consumed alive by flesh eating bacteria. Neither of which is true.

~

It's midnight when they crawl in bed, the one in the bedroom, for the first time in almost a month, and with a long exhale Bucky lets himself fade. This is James' place, at least for now. Tomorrow he'll give the Soldier a go and he shivers at the thought.

"What's on your mind?" Clint asks as he rolls to face James.

He swallows and forces himself to keep his eyes open, no matter how much he wants to close them right now.

"I was Bucky today," he says.

"I know," Clint breathes, his palm running up James' flesh arm under the blanket.

"Tomorrow I'll try... him."

Clint's face doesn't morph in disgust or fear or anything else and the lump in James' throat feels less heavy.

"You know," Clint says, "when I was in that ditch, ready to die, it wasn't you that saved me. It was him, the Soldier."

James frowns. Actually, he's right. The Soldier might not scare Clint, but... "I'm afraid of him," James whispers, and as soon as the admission is out, it's easier to spill the rest. "He feels nothing. He just is, like an object, and," he inhales, "you," exhales, "he..." but has no more words.

A few moments pass while Clint watches him and James doesn't know how to say what he actually fears.

"I will love him tomorrow just like I love you today," Clint reassures and that's it.

That's the core of it.

But with the relief also comes the knowledge that Clint's offering even more. Yet another thing James doesn't know how to give back. It's not a competition, it's not payment, it's just this dire, consuming need to put happiness on Clint's face, to keep it there.

So he does the only thing he knows how, he kisses Clint, holding onto him through the night.

~

They decide to do this while sparring, because there's no need for a weapon to sit idly on couches.

No. The Asset was made to fight, and he lunges with a spin.

~

With a wince, James rotates his shoulder before grabbing a swab to clean the scrapes on Clint's arms.

"Didn't expect you to dislocate my shoulder," he huffs, trying to contain his laughter, because shaking his frame right now would be bad, both for his tendons and for the cuts on Clint's skin.

Clint grins. "You mean you expected me to go easy on you."

James flicks his metal wrist before grabbing a bandaid to place on a deeper scrape.

"Kiss me," Clint demands and James complies before returning to his ministrations.

This feels good. The session was liberating. Not even when he fought in the silo did he let the Soldier out, and tonight a lot of tension is gone from his muscles.

"Next time we should do it at the tower," Clint says and James raises an eyebrow. "There are supermats in Tony's gym, you won't believe."

"Maybe," James smiles, but he'll go anywhere for Clint.

"You know," Clint continues, tone growing serious, "you don't have to be all of him at once. Just a little bit at a time."

Ah. Yes. James nods. "I know, but I wanted to get used to them first."

Clint considers this, then tilts his head in agreement. "Good idea-ow," he gasps when James accidentally dabs disinfectant too forcefully on a cut. "You owe me another kiss for that."

"Is that right?"

Clint hums, nodding quickly, and James tastes his smile.

"So for my shoulder how many kisses do you owe me?"

"Oh," Clint laughs. "More than kisses I think."

Oh.

That.

But James keeps his smile in place, continues to apply bandaids. There's no reason to panic. It's what lovers do, don't they? The books say so, the internet says so... No reason for panic at all.

~

Three days later Natasha drops by with groceries and to tell them Steve's growing impatient. Also, she has a date with Sam that evening, which prompts Clint to tease her about it until she punches his arm hard enough to leave a bruise.

It's when Clint's on the phone with Steve that James manages to catch Natasha alone. He has questions. After the first few hours of increasing worry, he took a deep breath and searched online for answers. He found out that not wanting is indeed an option and communication is the key. But that doesn't explain how to understand what Clint wants or how to talk to Clint, both of which are better to be researched through Natasha.

"So, Clint and I," James starts, but hums instead of continuing. Words aren't easy.

Nat, though, gives him half a smirk. "I know."

"It's obvious?"

"No, but I know Clint," she says, her smirk turning into a smile. "You want information."

He nods with an inhale and she rolls a hand expectantly. This is harder than he thought, will probably be even harder with Clint looking at him. "Things happened in Austria between him and Bu--and me. But now--"

James turns away to sit on one of the kitchen chairs. Outside, Clint's gesturing with both arms, phone tucked between his shoulder and ear and James' mouth wants to smile.

"Hey," Natasha's voice is soft and he looks up at her. "It's ok to say no."

"I know, I just," James mumbles, leaning with his elbows on his knees, then placing his forehead in his palms.

"Some people take years to get there, it's normal," she continues, supportive, and James forces himself to smile at her. "Besides, Austria was long ago, you're different."

"Yeah but for Clint it just happened."

"And when exactly did you two start this?" she asks, finger making a round motion in the air.

"Two weeks ago," James says.

"Then why are you pressuring yourself?"

"I think he wants--" James starts, but finishes with a wave.

"Are you sure?" Natasha asks, crossing her arms with a raised eyebrow.

"No," James whispers, "that's why I'm asking you."

Her shoulders slump at that and her gentle smile returns. She pulls a chair for herself, takes a seat next to him. "You're sleeping in the same bed, right?"

James nods.

"Do you hug? Cuddle?"

"Brainwashed assassins do not cuddle," James mutters, "but yeah."

"Hah," Nat grins. "Did Clint say that?"

"He did," James says and Natasha chuckles knowingly before growing serious again.

"Did his hands stray below your waist, did he pull your clothes off?"

He shakes his head.

"Ok," she says, straightening. "First off, I think he'd say what he wants before doing it, and second, he lived for thirty three years without having sex, with anyone - no, wait, that's thirty eight - so even if you don't want any, he'd be ok with it."

James swallows. That makes sense. "But how do I tell him?"

Natasha shakes her head with a shrug. "Just say it. Write it on a piece of paper. He'll understand."

And yet. "What if he doesn't," James breathes.

The seconds stretch in silence while Natasha studies him in between slow blinks. But then she extends a hand over the table and he takes it, her fingers small between his metal ones.

"Tonight when I see Sam," she whispers, "I'll have the same conversation with him. That it might be years until--or never." James tugs at her hand, receiving a squeeze in return. "But the reason I can do that," she continues, "instead of forcing myself, is because of Clint. So trust me, he'll understand."

James stares at their hands, willing himself to believe her.

"I know you think better of Clint, so what are you really afraid of?"

What is he--so many things, some of them unspeakable, but if he wants answers, he needs to be forthcoming as well, and the thing most dire right now is how unbalanced things are. "He's given me so much and I don't even know if I love him yet," James admits, heart rabbiting against his ribs.

Natasha's brow furrows slowly, but then relaxes before it even turns into a full frown. She laughs, once, twice, and James pushes at her shoulder.

"You're an asshole," he mutters, but her laugh is contagious enough to make him fight the twitching of his lips.

"Ok, ok, sorry," she gasps, sobering. "James, you define what love is for yourself."

"But Clint said--"

"That's how he learned about it. Doesn't have to be the very same."

So that means--James' free hand goes to his chest, presses against the tightness surrounding his ribs.

"You feel something, don't you?" she asks, voice quiet.

James nods, slowly.

"And it's soothed when Clint's near."

It's not a question, but James nods again. Could it be this simple?

"I asked Clint once what it's like for him," she continues, "and he said it hurts, but it's also warming him up. For me, when I see him in danger, it's a heavy weight in my stomach that I have to ignore so it doesn't compromise me. We all feel things differently. It's up to you to choose a word for it, if you want."

James inhales, trying to steady his own heartbeat.

"Tell me," Natasha whispers, "why is it so important to love him? Is it because you want to repay him or because you know it'll make him happy? The first one is selfishness, the second..."

Her words hang in the air while their meaning settles over James in layers, and now his heart pulses in his chest with a slowness that makes his entire body shudder.

"I lo--"

Natasha's hand covers his mouth, cutting him off. "Tell him, not me," she says, pleased smile on her face, and lets go when he nods. "Give," and she taps a finger on her cheek.

James' grin makes it harder to place a peck on her skin, but she grins right back, just as Clint ambles in, grumbling at the phone.

"Bucky, your boyfriend's being annoying," he mutters.

"He's not my boyfriend," James returns. "You are."

"Oh yeah?" Clint asks, but he's already so content, it brings back the swirling sensation in James' bones.

"Yeah," he rasps, pulling at Clint until he's in his lap and James can wrap himself around him.

Definitely yeah. It's love.

~

It's not until the next evening that James braces himself enough to open the conversation. They're already in bed, have been for about an hour, sleep elusive. It's a night like most, when they lie down even if they can't close their eyes, not ready to face the nightmares on the other side. Usually Clint drifts off sometime before dawn. Usually James watches him until it's time to shake him awake. James doesn't need more than a few hours every couple of days and in those moments he likes to be near Clint. It's always better.

Right now, though, they're both still awake. The room is bathed in the muted light of the lamp, on its lowest setting, just enough to make out shapes and the lines of Clint's face. James traces his eyebrow with his flesh thumb, where they're lying face to face under the comforter, and Clint pecks at the heel of his hand.

James inhales, his chest full.

"What happened that night in Austria," James says and Clint hums in question. "Some things I want to do again, but others I don't."

Here goes. James swallows while Clint blinks, considering.

"What parts are ok to repeat?" Clint asks.

"After," James breathes, the sound a little too shaky.

Clint's lips twitch upward with a smile, eyes soft, and the swirling sensation flutters in James' chest.

"I like your skin," James continues, and that's not at all what he wanted to say. He practiced this, but now the words are escaping his grasp.

The light in Clint's eyes grows brighter, if possible. "So you want to sleep without clothes," he concludes.

"Cuddle," James corrects, "without t-shirts."

Clint tuts. "We talked about the cuddle," he says, but he's already wiggling out of his faded t-shirt, which soon flies across the room to settle on the back of the chair in the corner.

"Show off," James says, nervousness already abated, while Clint sticks his tongue out and turns around.

Just like on that small bed in Austria, when Bucky held him to his chest, closer than he'd held anyone. Now it's James' turn, so he hurries to get rid of his own shirt before plastering himself to Clint's back.

"Cold," Clint gasps.

Right. The arm. But before James can move, Clint shuffles, pulls, and prods, until the metal arm is extended and Clint's head rests on it. James shivers, aware of the contact between them. It's better than he remembers and he basks in it for long moments, nose pushed in Clint's hair, his right hand splayed over the planes of Clint's belly, Clint's own fingers pressing it there.

But their talk is not over and James draws a deep breath. "I don't want the rest." His own words seem frail to his own ears.

"Ok," Clint says, patting his hand.

Maybe he misunderstood and James clutches tighter at him. "Don't you want to know why?"

"Not unless you wanna tell me," Clint responds, this time treading their fingers together. "Do you?"

"Later," James replies. He's not sure himself right now, but the websites say that's natural and he doesn't need a reason. So he swallows against his dry throat. "What if I never--" he starts, but the words fade out in the middle.

"That's fine," Clint says, like it's the easiest thing in the world.

Like James told him they're out of eggs for breakfast and he has to take a moment to gather his thoughts. He's grateful he can't see Clint's face right now, or more exactly that Clint can't see his. "Don't you want more?" he rasps.

"I want what you want."

"But what happens when we don't--"

"Hey," Clint stops him. "We ask. There are always four answers: yes, no, will think about it, and let's try," he says, letting go of James' hand to count these off in the air, and James can't help himself from catching his fingers again. "Uh... here's an idea. Would you consider taking a bath together? We'd wash each other."

Oh, the four options make sense now, and James considers each one. "Let's try?"

Clint brings their entwined hands to his lips, places a loud kiss on the back of James'. "I love you," he says, "and all I want is for you to be happy. We'll figure this ou--"

"I love you, too."

It takes a heartbeat for Clint to tense in James' arms.

"I think my implants misfired, I didn't catch that."

Laughter bubbles out of James' chest along with the tightness and the fullness and the swirling. "I love you, Nemo," he says, despite the chuckles.

Clint shivers, twists. "Kisses? Now?"

Kisses, yes. James complies. Bucky soars, the Soldier grumbles, and Nemo inhales with satisfaction.

Nemo loves.

~

Clint slinks around James, his hand closer and closer to the plate of chocolate chip cookies on the counter and James smacks it away.

"Aw come on!" Clint whines. "I can't even try one?"

James raises an eyebrow and Clint huffs, crossing his arms. "I'm telling on you."

"To Steve? Why do you think he got banned from the kitchen in the first place?"

"You..." Clint starts, eyes squinting, head shaking slowly in exaggerated disbelief, "evil, evil man."

James laughs, handing over a cookie, and moves the plate next to the others on the table. He is making a batch for each of them. It's four down, one to go. Hah, and Steve said he couldn't. The punk.

Clint smiles as he hops on the counter, watches for a while, eating the still hot sweet as James starts the batter for the last recipe.

"Do you ever see me as seventeen?" Clint asks and James glances over his shoulder. There's a far away look on his face, like he's back to that place.

James hasn't even thought of that. Clint is... Clint.

"No," he says. "I only spent a few days with the young you, and mostly saw this face," he waves at Clint, "since then. Why do you ask?"

"That's when I fell for you," he returns, eyes drifting toward the window.

Outside, Natasha's demonstrating her thigh grip to Sam by choking Steve and James huffs. But then Clint's words register and he raises both eyebrows, heart already thumping against his ribs. He knew Clint was already loving him in Austria, but this confirms it, and James thinks back at all their interactions. When did it happen for him?

"Of course," Clint continues. "I didn't realize it at the time, but much later. Years."

"I don't know when I--"

"You don't have to," Clint interrupts, extending a hand, and James sets the bowl down before coming over.

"Then why are you thinking about this?" he asks, hands framing Clint's face.

"It's the time stone," Clint whispers, rubbing at James' forearms. "We don't know how it might change things in the future, so I wanted to tell you."

"I hope it doesn't," James tells him. "If I were to choose between seven decades with HYDRA and none with you--"

"Shh," Clint stops him. "Don't make me bawl, we have guests."

"Brainwashed assassins don't bawl," James returns with a smirk.

"Yeah we do," Clint grins.

And James tastes it. They've been trying different kisses. Some he likes more than others, like this one now, where Clint slots their mouths in such a way that James can nip at his lower lip. It turns the swirling into tingles, not that he'll ever admit it out loud.

Movement catches the corner of his eye and they break the kiss, turning to see Steve close. Really close, shoving half a cookie in his mouth, blinking thoughtfully.

"Hey Buck," Steve says.

"Stevie."

"Could you possibly remove the knife, thanks."

James looks downward, following Steve's gaze from his left wrist to the point where the tip of the knife he apparently snatched from the counter is resting against Steve's heart.

Huh.

"I told him not to sneak up on you," Natasha says as she strolls in, followed by Sam.

"That's nothing," Clint comments. "Remember when I sleepwalked and almost strangled Tony?"

"Gun to the forehead," Sam adds, sticking out his tongue at Natasha and she shrugs.

James places the knife on the counter. They make it sound so... casual, and the tremors in his flesh hand subside in waves. Clint watches him with understanding, alleviating the tension.

"So you two," Steve says, biting into another cookie, a cranberry one this time and James turns to glare at Sam, who's now handing one to Clint as well, over James' shoulder.

"Us," Clint confirms.

Steve hums. "Everybody's with somebody these days. Sam and Nat, Thor and Jane, don't even get me started on what's going on with Tony and Pepper and Rhodes."

"Bruce is available," Clint says.

"Hill, too," offers Natasha.

Steve's appalled face is delightful. "No offense, but they both scare me."

"And Peggy didn't?" James asks.

"She was terrifying," Steve says with exaggerated glee, causing laughter around the room.

But he's watching James with a small smile, both happy and sad. James gets it. Happy they're both here, sad that others aren't. James wraps his metal fingers around his shoulder, leans over to kiss his cheek.

"Stop stealing my cookies, Sam," he says.

Steve grins and James grins.

"What about Vision?" Clint asks. "Is he terrifying enough?"

Unison groans fill the space, followed by more laughter, and James returns to his batter.

Things are looking up.

~

2015

"Happy New Year," Clint says, and James repeats the words.

They're on the highest terrace of the Stark Tower, overlooking the brightly lit city, under an awning that shields them from the frosty wind. They've spent the last two and a half months at the cabin, with as little visitors as possible, despite the general grumbling. James insisted, he needed the space. Now, though, they're back in New York for Tony's famous party, which turned out to be a very private and small affair. It's better, they've been playing cards all night and drinking hot chocolate.

Clint shifts closer and James wraps an arm around him.

"When you met me I was nameless," he breathes.

"And now?"

"Now I am... me. A name only matters if there's someone to use it."

With a hum, Clint turns and snakes his arms under James' open coat, all the way around his middle. His nose is cold where it touches James' neck.

"What do you think will happen next?" James asks.

"There are still baddies out there," Clint says. "Tony was talking about building a new facility, not in the middle of the city, where innocents can get hurt if the Avengers are under siege again."

"Good idea."

"We could join them," Clint adds.

"We?"

At that, Clint leans back to look at James. "Yeah. We are Nemo together, aren't we?"

James smiles, uncontainable. Clint never ceases to amaze him with these little things. He presses a kiss on his lips, cold from the outside air, before resting their foreheads together. There is a certainty, in Clint's presence, a congruence in the directions of their souls, that gives James strength to face the unknown just as it does to brave his nightmares.

There's a softness, in the sharpness of Clint's being. He's been, at times, as much of a weapon as James was, ruthless, merciless. But when he turns the green-blue-gold eyes to James, everything falls into place, like the storm surrounds them.

The world converges on this space that's theirs. Not a physical manifestation, but burrowed deep in Nemo's hearts, in the middle of their chests.

From survival to solace, a serenity that makes him stronger.

A voice and an echo, a lingering touch.

Nameless, no longer.

~End~


End file.
